


Shades of pain

by AvaJones



Series: Something to do with Hearts and Butterflies [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Art, Art Model, Case Fic, Drawing, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, It's For a Case, Jealous John, Jealous Sherlock, John - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Love, M/M, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Torture, kiss, sock index
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-09-28 08:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 43,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10080530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaJones/pseuds/AvaJones
Summary: Sherlock is bored, again. When he finds something in John's bedroom that triggers his curiosity.He thought he knew everything about his best friend, but apperantly John still had secrets.Secrets that needed investigation.  Obviously.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by the Sherlock challenge "hidden talent" (http://sherlockchallenge.tumblr.com)  
> And I will post a new chapter every Wednesday and Sunday!  
> I love feeback, kudos and notes!
> 
> Happy reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock grinned at himself. Yes. He had something to do now, something inside the house, something to help John, and something he knew he was good at.  
> Energetically he stood up from the sofa, his blue dressing gown swinging dramatically around him, when he went towards the stairs to John's bedroom, barefooted as always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ ](http://holychurchofrandomfandom.tumblr.com)

Sherlock turned on his other side on the sofa, facing the living room again.

God. He had been here for hours, days even, and he was still bored out of his mind. John was out to work, again, playing the good doctor, healing stupid old people and children with coughs. The Yard didn't have any interesting cases at the moment; Molly threw him out of her morgue when she caught him stealing some necessary body parts for his experiment which he was working on at the moment. Well, not at the moment, because without the six ears he needed he couldn't work on it, could he? He sighed again. His life was so hard sometimes.

When he complained about the dullness to John yesterday, the man had smirked at him and told him to make himself useful and do some work around the house. Cleaning, dusting, doing the dishes or even cook something. Sherlock had looked at his roommate as if he had suggested to murder someone. (That would be interesting, but impossible. He would probably be the one called in to investigate the crime he committed himself.) So, instead of telling John that, he just rolled his eyes and had replied.  
"That's just stupid. Why would I do that? Do I look like a housekeeper to you?"  
He had seen John's cheeks getting pink with anger, and he had felt his stomach twist at the sight. He loved it when his roommate skin turned colour like that. That was another thing he didn't tell John, for obvious reasons, of course.

While thinking about the pink cheeks of his roommate, and asking himself if there was more skin of him that turned pink when the man was in certain circumstances, Sherlock growled.

Not good.

Instead of going down that path of thoughts, Sherlock shook his head and sat himself up on the sofa to rubbed his hands across his face. Maybe John was right, and he should do something in the house. That was a kind thing to do for him, wasn't it? He wanted to do something that made John happy, just to see if that made the man turn colour also, so he could save that image in his mind palace with the rest of the information he had stuffed there about John. But he was definitely not cleaning or cooking.

There was something that had caught his eyes this morning when he was looking at John, (without him noticing, of course.) The smaller man was standing in the kitchen, preparing breakfast and tea for himself and for Sherlock. (The toast and tea were still standing on the coffee table in front of him, untouched and turned cold after standing there for more than three hours now.) But when John was waiting for the kettle to boil, Sherlock's gaze had gone from his head to toe, seeing that the doctor was wearing two different socks. Two different socks! How tedious! His left sock had been a dark grey one, while his right sock had a slightly lighter hue. How could the man not have noticed that? His taste in jumpers was already hideous, so it was unacceptable that the man was wearing to different socks. There must be something wrong with his sock index.

Sherlock grinned at himself. Yes. He had something to do now, something inside the house, something to help John, and something he knew he was good at.

Energetically he stood up from the sofa, his blue dressing gown swinging dramatically around him, when he went towards the stairs to John's bedroom, barefooted as always.

~

The man's sock index was nonexistence. How could he live like this? The rest of John's bedroom was army tidy, as usual, but the drawer with socks was like a crime scene. (At best a four, but still.) There were loose socks, socks turned inside out, a few bundles of a pair, which had to be separated to be certain that they were a matching pair, obviously, and he even found a sock with a hole in it. It was a right mess. John's life would be a lot more easier when Sherlock was done here. He sat down in front of the cabinet, his long legs crossed in front of him, and he took out all the socks, making the drawer empty, and started to search out pairs. He threw the sock with the hole in it over his shoulder, and added another one with a hideous pattern on it. (Really John? Grey with blue stripes?)

Sherlock worked systematically trough all John's socks, pairing them, and ordering them into the drawer at colour. After twenty minutes his work was done, and he looked to the new made sock index feeling a bit smug. Yes. John would like that. Sherlock turned himself around to get the socks that didn't make his selection and started to gather them. One of them (the hideous patterned one, of course) had rolled himself underneath the bed. Sherlock layed flat on his stomach to reach for it, poking his head underneath the bed, when his eyes saw a carton box hidden away at the head side of the bed, against the wall. Instead of reaching for the lost sock, Sherlock reached out to the box and pulled it from under the bed. He had never seen it before. How could he have missed it when he searched John's room before when he was bored?

He looked at the box on his lap, his curiosity growing fast. Long slender fingers caressed the lit of the box, leaving behind a little trail of clean. The box was a bit dusty. He really shouldn't do this. When John found out he had been snooping around in his room again, he would be very mad. Not the kind of mad that made his skin the pretty shade of pink, but the kind of mad that made his voice harsh, increased the frowns on his forehead, and made his lips turn into a small stripe. The 'not good' kind of mad.

But the curiosity won. If he was careful, John would never know that he had found this box with treasures.

Carefully Sherlock lifted the lit to see what was inside.

The first thing he saw was a sketchbook. His eyes flickered to the rest of the content of the box, and it seemed that there were only sketchbooks inside. He put the box down next to him and with steady hands he carefully took out the sketchbook on top. He lay it down in his lap and carefully turned the cover to reveal the first page.

His breath got stuck in his throat. His eyes scanned the pencil stripes on the paper in front of him. He saw the shadows created with more or less pressure, the absence of pencil where there had been hard sunlight. He stared at the portrait in front of him. He saw the hint of a smile drawn on the perfectly shaped face; he even saw the shine on the dog tags that were drawn around the soldier’s neck. It was gorgeous.

This must have been one of his fellow soldiers in Afghanistan. The man looked at ease, just enjoying the sight in front of him, probably looking to something pretty in the dessert or something.

After a few minutes Sherlock turned the page.

The next one was another soldier. The man looked like he was deep in thoughts. This man was older. He had the sharp lines in his face of a man who had seen a lot of misery in his life. His eyes were dreamy, as if the man was thinking about going home, going somewhere safe, a place where he could leave all of the horror of the war behind him.

On the next page there wasn't a portrait, but scenery of a marked place, crowded with people. Sherlock could almost hear the loud voices of the sellers, feel the heat of the Afghan sun on his skin, and the dryness in his throat, caused by the dry desert wind that was displayed in the picture in front of him. The next one was a portrait of an elderly Afghan citizen. Deep lines of life in his face, a few scars and a darker hue of skin tone. The pair of eyes that were staring at him from the piece of paper were clear and full of wisdom. Impatiently he turned the page again, wanting to see more. He saw the face of a soldier. Tears welling up in the man's eyes. The face was shocked, deeply hurt, as if the man was mourning. From here on the drawings became darker, sadder. Pictures of soldiers crying fisted hands and tensed muscles, an empty marketplace. The next one was a portrait again. Sherlock recognised the face as that of the elderly citizen from before. Only now the eyes didn't speak wisdom anymore. The eyes stared at him from the paper, empty, lifeless. After that the sketchbook was empty. Page after page of clean white sheets. Sherlock felt a spike of pain. It felt wrong to end with this picture. After all the beauty the other pictures had shown, the last one only showed negativity, sadness, loss. He put the sketchbook beside him, reaching inside the box for the next one. This one was older. He opened it and saw on the first page an anatomical drawing of a dissected spine. Anatomical correct, of course. The added shadows made it pop up from the paper, giving it a lifelike touch. He made this during his study at Bart’s, then.

The next page was an image of a heart. Sherlock could see where it had been cut to investigate before it went down on this piece of paper. When he turned the page he looked into the face of a younger (and skinnier) Mike Stamford. Sherlock smiled at the sight. Even though he didn't know the man back then, he knew the picture was very accurate. This sketchbook was full with drawings of body parts, muscles, bones, and portraits of his classmates and friends. This sketchbook was full until the end. As was the next, and the next. Sherlock looked down at the now empty box next to him and was a little disappointed that there were no other drawings left. With the last sketchbook still in his hands he thought about it. His thoughts went back to the last picture John seemed to have drawn. How was it possible to give a piece of paper so much emotion? How did John manage to put it on paper, to even make Sherlock get moved by it, just thinking about the loss in that last picture? It made him feel uncomfortable. And how could John have hidden this skill from him? It seemed like the man had drawn for the most part of his life, and quite good actually. But he had stopped after the saddest drawing of all. Sherlock stood up to search the rest of his room, looking for scribbles or pencils but he didn't find any. So John really didn't draw anymore. But why? It seemed like a favourite past time for a lot of people, and it would definitely beat the stupid novels he was reading now almost every night when they were at home and he wasn't working on his blog.

Sherlock felt a sudden urge to see John bent over a piece of paper, pencil in hand, his face focused, the tip of his tongue peeking out, wetting his lips as he did when he was intensely focused on his work. He wanted to see how the doctor looked using the right side of his brain, the creative side, instead of the left.

Sherlock put the sketchbooks back inside the box, exactly the same as he had found it, and he put the box back in his spot underneath the bed. While crawling back from underneath the bed he grabbed the lost sock and took it down with him with the others, to throw them away in the bin in the kitchen. He retreated himself back on the sofa, trying to figure out how he could get John back to drawing, without letting him know what Sherlock had found.

Because that would be a bit more than not good, and that was something he really wanted to avoid.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there was a droplet of rain falling from Sherlock's hair onto his collarbone, rolling down towards his chest, just to follow his path down towards his belly button. He saw the skin shiver where the droplet rolled down, leaving a small wet stripe behind.
> 
> O bloody hell. How was he going to do this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy our two favourite idiots doing what they do best. (Deny everything!)  
> Next chapter will be up on Wednesday!  
> Thanks for reading, leave kudos or comments, they make me happy!

A few weeks later Sherlock got an email that made it possible to finally investigate his friends creative side. He had made sure that John had no idea that he had found the sketchbooks, but he did find out that the man was happy with his own sock index (how could he not.) And the warm smile he had given Sherlock had made his heart jump inside his chest. 

Sherlock had managed to get the six ears he needed for his experiment after all, giving some compliments to Molly that made her skin change a bright pink. (which made Sherlock conclude that that still didn't have the same effect on him as when this happened with John.) And after finishing his experiment there was even an interesting case offered by Lestrade, keeping his mind occupied for at least two whole weeks. But the drawings kept popping up in his mind. The email he was reading now was the best opportunity he had got since he found out about his roommates secret talent. 

The email was from an art school in London. They had evening classes for adults, where they gave lessons in portraits and working from a living model. The models were hired from an agency specialised in art models, or they were people who volunteered to work with them. The problem was, that some of the models had disappeared after a few lessons. They were listed as missing persons. The four missing models were all male and between thirty and forty years old. The first one went missing three years ago. All the female models were left alone, as were the male models younger than thirty and older than forty. It took a long time before anyone saw the connection between the missing men, because of the time span between the missings, and the fact that the men had no other connections with each other. 

It was perfect! They could go to the art school together. John could pretend to be a student, while he could act as a model himself. He fit the description and he had no problem with sitting still for long periods of time. He emailed back to the director of the art school that he accepted the case and his demands, and within five minutes he got a reply back. That was settled, then. Sherlock turned away from his computer to look at John. He was sitting in his chair, tired from a long day at work, reading another dull novel, sipping from his tea. 

"We have a new case. Starting next week. I need you to come with me on every Tuesday and Thursday evening."  
John looked up to him. His eyebrows lifted high in a questioning gesture.  
"Sure. No problem. What do you need me to do?"  
Sherlock got a smirk on his face, which he tried to hide as soon as it appeared.  
"You, are going to act as an art student."  
John giggled.  
"Me? As an art student? Have you seen me lately? I'm not sure if I can manage to look like an eighteen year old anymore."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. 

"Don't be an idiot, John. Of course you can't act like a teenager. No. These are evening classes, for adults. I need you to act as a course member, take two classes a week for a certain period of time, learning how to paint or draw or something and keep your eyes open for me."  
Observant as he was, Sherlock saw a slight tension coming up in the man's shoulders when he mentioned painting or drawing.  
"What is this case about?"  
John asked him. Sherlock told him about the missing persons, and John leaned a bit forward to listen intense to what Sherlock was telling him. 

"But if I'm acting as an art student, what are you going to do then?"  
"I volunteered as a model. I'm starting next week."  
Sherlock saw a little blush coming up at John's cheeks.  
"Right..." He managed to get out. Focusing back on the novel at his lap and putting the mug with tea back in front of his face, hiding most of it.

Why was he blushing? He didn't seem angry. Was it the fact that he had to start drawing again? Or was it something else? Was he blushing because Sherlock was going to be his study object? It was too dark to see John properly, so he had to study this reaction some other time. Very frustrating.

~

Sherlock and John hurried themselves towards the doors of the art school together. It was already dark outside, and it was raining as usual in London in this time of year. Sherlock could see that John was a bit nervous. He had his shoulders pulled up, and his chin pushed down, more than this weather would require. His lips were pressed together in a tight line, and he hadn't said a word since they had stepped inside the cab together. John was worried about something. Maybe this was a mistake after all. John stopped drawing in Afghanistan. He never mentioned it to Sherlock, or anybody else for that matter. What if it triggered something again? What if his friend had stopped with a reason? Sherlock had to make sure that he was alright with this. He wrapped his bag with spare clothes tighter underneath his arm and looked at his friend.

"Are you alright?"  
He asked the smaller man next to him. John looked up at him and smiled.  
"I'm fine. Why shouldn't I be?"  
"You seem... tense."  
John inhaled deeply and gave Sherlock a smaller smile this time.  
"It's just... I don't know. What do you expect of tonight?"  
Sherlock frowned.  
"Well, you go and do something with paper and pencils, keeping an eye on the other students and chat or something, while I pose for the class. I can't talk or anything, I need to sit still."  
"Yes. I figured that. It's just... You're not going to go sit there naked, are you?"  
John's voice had gone soft, just a bit more than a whisper. And Sherlock could see him getting pink again. His heart stuttered at the sight and for a moment he was lost for words.  
"No. Well, I don't intent to get naked, if that's what you mean. I already spoke to the teacher. She told me that is was a study of face and torso, so I guess I can keep my trousers on."  
John chuckled, the sound getting lost in the wind that was blowing Sherlock's wet curls in his face.  
"Come on!" John said.  
"We're already running late. And you're the main attraction tonight."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at this comment, but it got lost in the wind and rain. 

They entered the building and crossed the hall to walk to the only classroom where there was light coming from. When they entered the room they saw that everyone else already was sitting down behind their desks and easels, wearing thick sweatshirts and jumpers. Some of them even wore scarfs. The woman who stood in front of the group strode forwards to them, a kind smile on her face.

"Good evening gentlemen. Thank you for joining us tonight. I'm terribly sorry but the heater broke down today, so it's a bit chilly in here. I hope you won't mind. My name is Esmeralda Pointer. You are John? I presume? Then you must be Gerald." She said smiling at the men. The woman greeting them was mildly said eccentric. She was about sixty-five years old, had wild grey hair and was wearing some sort of purple dress, matching her lipstick. She smelled like incense. Sherlock and John had decided that the names Sherlock and John weren't going to work here to go undercover. They were still in London, and even though they were low profile at this moment, there had been enough cases of them that made the news the last few years. And the name John might be common enough, Sherlock was a name you didn't hear much in London, or in the UK, or in the rest of the world for that matter. 

"Please, John. You can hang your coat on the rack behind you, and then you can take a seat behind the empty desk at the left in the front. I already put down some papers and pencils for you. Gerald, if you would like to follow me?" Esmeralda walked back to a door at the end of the room, Sherlock following her steps.

John took of his jacket and hang it at the end of the coat rack. The rest of the class was softly talking with each other. Some of them looked up to John and smiled at him or greeting him when he past them towards his desk, others ignored him or were too occupied with their conversations to notice him. John sat down behind the desk and he looked at the white paper and the pencils in front of him. He felt a spike of happiness and at the same time a spike of loss when he looked at them. It had been almost five years since he last took up a pencil. But somehow he was eager to begin. It was like an old love fluttering back to life. And in a way it was. He took up the B4 pencil and balanced it in his hand. He rolled the pencil between his fingers, and felt a small smile coming up to his lips. Yes. Maybe it was time to give it a go again. He felt a small twitch in his stomach and he wiped the stupid grin of his face before anyone else would notice that he was smiling like an idiot.

The door at the end of the classroom opened again and Esmeralda came back into the room.  
"Okay class!" She said, her voice raised a bit so everybody gave her full attention.  
"As you al can see, we have a new student today. This is John." She said, gesturing towards him. John smiled a bit and raised his hand to greet everyone.  
"In the break you will have plenty of time to get to know each other, but I would like to begin our class now. As you all have noticed, it isn't getting any warmer in here, and I don't want you all to freeze in here. Today we will start with a new model. His name is Gerald, and he's an experienced art model, so we can take our time with him. He will be our subject for the weeks to come. And we will start with a face slash torso study."

At that time Sherlock had decided to step out of the door and join the chilly classroom. He was wearing tight jeans. Sherlock was wearing tight jeans. Only tight jeans. 

Jeans.

O god.

Sherlock's torso was bare. The slender man walked towards the chair that was standing in the middle of the classroom and sat down on it. Esmeralda went towards him and gave him a pose. She made him stretch his back and made him put one arm to rest across the backrest and the left arm resting on his lap. John saw that his muscles were tight, bringing out the abs of his chest and abdomen. There were goose bumps all over his skin because of the cold, and when John's gaze settled on the man's hard nipples, he swallowed heavily and noticed that his mouth was hanging open. He snapped his mouth shut, feeling his cheeks getting red. 

O god.

He was bloody gorgeous. The man in front of him was a personification of sex and lust. He looked like a marble statue out of the Era of the Roman Empire, his skin pale and no body fat in sight. John felt his heart beat in his ears, and when Sherlock's eyes found his, he didn't know how fast he had to look down at the white paper in front of him. 

Jesus.

"Can you hold this pose for a while?" Esmeralda asked him.  
Sherlock blinked a few times. He had been staring at John. The man had looked at him as if he saw him for the first time. The fact that John was going to stare at him for the few hours to come was enough to make him nervous. He did not take that into account thinking this plan through. Sherlock felt a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold he was feeling, but it intensified the goose bumps across his arms and chest. 

"I apologise for the cold again. When you get to chilly, just say it. We can take a break then, so you can warm yourself up."  
Esmeralda patted his shoulder and stepped back from him.  
"Okay class! We are going to start with this pose. You all know how to start, I'll be walking around and give you a hand if needed. John, I'll be with you in a moment, so you can make a good first start."

She walked towards a stereo next to the teacher’s desk and put on some classical background music, and the student around him started putting their pencils and brushes onto their paper and canvases. John looked at his fellow students. Some of them looked like they knew what they were doing, others just seemed a bit lost, but started anyway. Esmeralda walked towards John and bent herself over his shoulder. 

"So, John. Any experience with drawing?" She asked softly. John gave her a half smile.  
"Yeah, you can say something like that. I used to draw a lot. But then I went working abroad and I never found the time again. So it has been a few years."  
Esmeralda gave him a knowing look.  
"I want to thank you for getting your boyfriend to sit for us. It's hard to get a good model these days. Well, I won't keep you from starting. You seem eager enough. Will you start with a sketch?"  
"I'll make a raster first." He answered her, his voice barely more than a whisper. He didn't argue about the boyfriend bit, as he had no idea what Sherlock had said to her when they were in the other room together. She squeezed his shoulder and winked at him, leaving him to his work. John bent himself over his paper, and started to make a light raster. It had been so long that he had drawn anything, he thought it was smart to start this way. He felt his head getting empty, the tension leave his shoulders and back, and he was so getting into making the raster that he forgot that there were others around him. 

When he finished his raster a few minutes later he looked up to the model in front of him. 

Sherlock was staring back. Their eyes met and locked to each other for a moment. He felt his cheeks redding again and he swallowed again. His eyes went down to Sherlock's chest, trying to only see the shadows and the lights, the skin tones and the muscles. It sort of worked, until there was a droplet of rain falling from Sherlock's hair onto his collarbone, rolling down towards his chest, just to follow his path down towards his belly button. He saw the skin shiver where the droplet rolled down, leaving a small wet stripe behind.

O bloody hell. How was he going to do this?

Breath. Act normal. You're a grown man, he's a grown man. He's your roommate for God's sake! It's just Sherlock. Just ignore the heat settling in your stomach and groin. Don't think about all the things you want to do with him. Do not get aroused in a full classroom. You're not fifteen anymore. 

John squeezed his eyes again and gave himself a mental kick in the arse.  

He let his mind go back to think about the pencil in his hand, the way it felt so familiar. And when he opened his eyes again he could see it. The man in front of him was no longer his way too attractive roommate, but he was like a statue, existing out of light and dark. John looked at it and put his pencil down onto his paper. 

Finally, after five years, he was creating something again.

Sherlock noticed the switch John made. If he didn't know any better, he would swear John had looked at him with hunger in his eyes, his whole body tensed up as if he was trying to stop himself from getting up and walking down at him, just to just throw him down and own him. Sherlock had felt his breathing speeding up, his head spinning and then he felt a drop of water falling down from his hair. John's eyes had followed it going down at his body, and Sherlock had to give everything he had not to display the way he was aroused underneath that look. 

But thank god John had broken his gaze, closing his eyes and taking a few steading breaths, just to open his eyes and look at Sherlock as if he no longer saw the man. Then he started to work. 

Sitting still like this was harder than expected due to the cold in the room. Sherlock blocked out all the other students looking at him and concentrated only on John. He could stay still for hours looking at him. Normally he didn't get a chance to do it when John was awake. He always seemed to feel Sherlock's eyes boring at him, making the detective to look away. Almost always too late, but John didn't seemed to mind it.  

After an hour Esmeralda raised her voice again. 

"Time for a break, class. Please, you can get coffee and tea in the cafeteria down the hall to warm yourself up. We will continue in twenty minutes."

Sherlock pulled down his arm and stretched his back, feeling a bit stiff.

He looked at John and grinned at him, earning a grin back.  
"I'm going to get some coffee. Do you want some, too?"  
John asked him. Sherlock nodded at him.  
"Yes, John. That would be lovely. I'll just get something on me and I'll join you in the cafeteria, alright?"

John smiled and nodded, standing up from behind his desk to walk towards the door and into the hallway. Sherlock watched him go. When he was out of sight he stood up himself and went into the small room where his clothes were, and he pulled a jumper out of the plastic bag he brought with him. It was one of John's. It was too big for him, so he never wore it, but it fitted Sherlock as if he had bought it himself. It was hideous, of course, but it matched the cover he had made up for himself. And besides, he was freezing, so the jumper was preferable above his normal suit jacket at the moment. He pulled the jumper over his head, ruffling his hair when it was on, and he stepped outside the room intending to go towards the cafeteria to mingle with the rest of the group. To his surprise, Esmeralda was still in the classroom, standing behind John's desk, looking at his work. Her head went up when she heard Sherlock stepping in.

"Your man is very gifted." She said. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow and went to stand beside her, looking down at the sketch in front of him. 

It was a rough sketch, but John was already starting to get the details into it, making the drawing come alive. He saw the shadows that would create the depth in his work, the long lines of the muscles that were going to be his neck and the sharp line that was forming his cheek. It was marvellous. 

"Yes he is, isn't he?" Sherlock answered her question. Esmeralda turned the paper and lay it back as she had found it.  
"I think he doesn't want us to see his work yet. Let's keep it between us that we did, alright?" She asked him, a little insecure smile playing her lips. Sherlock just nodded to her, not trusting his voice enough to agree and went for the door, leaving Esmeralda behind.

Instead of going straight to the cafeteria, Sherlock walked towards the door heading outside. With any luck there were some smokers in the class, and that way they could both cover as much suspects as possible. When he opened the door he saw three people standing around a big bin that was used as an ashtray. The rain had finally stopped and even the wind was slightly less than over an hour ago, and Sherlock stepped outside.

"Hello Gerald." He was greeted by the three. Two men and one woman were smoking, and Sherlock took the offered cigarette thankfully.

The people were talking about their work, and they continued to do so, involving Sherlock in their conversation. Asking him questions about lighting and sorts of poses, which he answered with as much certainty as he could bring up. After five minutes he was really freezing, so he excused himself to get back inside and to take that coffee John promised him to warm himself up.

When he entered the cafeteria, John looked up at him and gave him a warm smile.

"Took you long enough." He said when Sherlock stopped next to him and gratefully took the offered coffee in hands. John looked at him and frowned.  
"Have you been smoking?"  
"No. Well, yes, but I... You know."  
John rolled his eyes dramatically and smirked at his roommate. His eyes went down and up again, and the smirk on his face became even bigger.  
"What the hell are you wearing?!" He asked softly, the joy very visible in his eyes. It annoyed Sherlock tremendously.  
"Yes, John. It's a jumper. One of yours, actually. Shut up." He said, his words sharp.  
"Are you enjoying yourself?" He continued and he saw John's posture change again.  
"Well, yes, actually. You know, when I was a kid, I loved to draw. It takes me back, I guess."

Liar.

"Is that so?" Sherlock responded, keeping his voice calm.  
"Can I see your work?"  
John clenched his teeth for a second and shook his head.  
"No, Sherlock. It's terrible. And I think it's sort of... therapeutic, for me, I mean. I rather keep it for myself, if you don't mind." 

The tense came back in the shorter man's shoulders, and Sherlock wished he hadn't asked John about the drawing. 

“No problem, John. Just promise me you will keep it, and not to throw it away because it is terrible."

The smile came back at John's face, letting Sherlock's heartbeat slow down again. 

"Well, I'm just going to mingle, if you don't mind." John said, nodding his head towards the other students, raising one eyebrow. Sherlock smiled encouraging and watched John walk towards the others, leaving him by himself.

   
The second half of the evening seemed to rush by. Even though he was working for two hours straight, John still felt concentrated and when Esmeralda told them all to stop their work, he even felt a little disappointed. Sherlock stretched himself and flew towards the small room to get himself properly dressed, while everyone around him started to pack up their tools and artworks, when John realised that he didn't bring anything to take the work in front of him home with him. He looked at Esmeralda and she came standing next to him, staring down at his work.

"O, John. This is breathtaking." She said softly, stroking her fingers across the side of the paper. She looked up at him as if she couldn't believe that the man in front of her had it in him, and John felt himself getting a bit uncertain, shy even, and he cleared his throat before speaking to her.

"Well... thanks... Yes... I just... I forgot to bring something to take it home with me. But, I can just leave it here. We will work further on this Thursday, don't we?"  
Esmeralda gave him a big smile, and patted his shoulder again.  
"Of course, John. I'll make sure it will be safe here. No one will see your work but me, is that alright with you?"  
John felt as if a weight was lifted from his chest. He didn't even know that it was there. And he smiled back at the woman.  
"That would be great. Thank you. I appreciate your help and your discretion."  
"I do suggest you bring a map with you next time, so you can take it home with you. And if you think you are ready, maybe you can look for a set of pencils of your own? It never hurts to work at home, getting familiar with the different densities of the pencils and to find out which sort of paper you prefer? Until that time you are free to use ours, of course."  
John nodded approvingly, although he already knew what his preference were, and when Esmeralda put the paper upside down he knew she understood the privacy the artwork held for him.

While John was getting his coat, Sherlock was already fully dressed, stepping out of the small room connected with the classroom. John could see that he was still wearing the tight jeans, and before Sherlock could pick up the fact that he was staring, John blinked his eyes and looked out of the window. It seemed like it had stopped raining, he absently thought. 

Sherlock bumped against his shoulder to let him know that he was ready to leave, and together they walked towards the exit. Sherlock was talking to him, but John didn't listen. His mind was too occupied with the feeling of creating something again. He couldn't wait until it was Thursday, the fact that they were here working a case for a moment forgotten.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He finally made a friend. Not just a friend, no. He found himself a best friend, a pal, a partner. A man who didn't question him, who laughed at his tantrums and dealt with them, someone who listened to his deductions without judging him and calling him a freak, but praised him instead. A man who saw all of him, and still hadn't run away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, They are really good with turning around each other, aren't they? But there are thing you can bury deep, but can't keep from coming back up.
> 
> Next chapter will be up Sunday!

The two men were sitting in their chairs across of each other, sipping their tea's, warming up from the cold outside. The fire in the hearth gave the room a feeling of security, making the room smaller and giving it a nice smell. John was enjoying it. He and Sherlock were discussing the course members they both talked too and they discussed their cover.

"Really Sherlock? Boyfriend?" John asked with a small smile on his face.  
Sherlock frowned and looked at his friend as if he was a bit slow.  
"Yes John. That was the best I could think off to get us both in the class at the same time. If we pretended not to know each other, we couldn't talk together, could we? Can't you see that it's quite brilliant? And besides, you might be to old to act like an eighteen year old, like you said, but your definitely to young to act as my father."  
John smirked at this and they focused themselves back on the case.  
Of the twelve students there were already five that got off the hook. At first sight, they weren't taking the course long enough to have anything to do with it. The rest needed more research, but there were three people that had their priority; David Wolf, the young man outside who gave Sherlock a cigarette, Marc Jenkins, the middle aged man that held himself absent from the rest of the class, and Liam Murphy, who was sitting at the desk next to John.

Sherlock was explaining why those men were the primary suspects, but John yawned again and put his empty cup down.  
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. But I really need to get some sleep."  
Sherlock looked up at him and blinked a few times.  
"Already?"  
"It's half past two."  
"So?"  
"It's Tuesday, well, technically Wednesday. A week day. I need to go to work tomorrow. Can't fall asleep treating patients, can I? You go and keep that big brain of yours busy figuring everything out. You can tell me all about it in the morning, okay?" John stood up and stretched himself. Sherlock's eyes were lingering at him again. John gave him a sleepy smile and walked towards the stairs to his bedroom.

"Good night, Sherlock."  
"Good night, John."

While John entered his bedroom and started to undress himself, he tried to banish the picture of Sherlock sitting in his chair, still wearing those ridiculous tight jeans from his eyes. The man was a menace. John climbed into his bed and rolled himself up in his blankets, closing his eyes and tried to drift to sleep. This wasn't the time for another sexual identity crisis. He was forty years old for Christ sake.

John turned onto his side, trying to think about something else and ignore the awoken lonely butterfly fluttering in his stomach again. He had ended that chapter, closed that book. He just couldn't feel like that anymore. It was too much.  
He was thankful that Sherlock had given him something back. Something he thought he would never have again, even though Sherlock had no idea that he did something like that. That was part of the reason this feelings towards his room mate came up again, stronger than ever before, nothing more, nothing less. And it had definitely nothing to do with a certain raindrop making its way down, leaving a small wet trail behind.

Sherlock was still sitting in his chair, looking into the fire, but not seeing the flames. Was there another connecting element between the victims? They were all of a certain age, they were fit and tall, and they all had been sitting model for an art class. Two of them were gay, one single and the other in a long term relationship. The other two were straight, one of them married, a father and a schoolteacher, the other one was the youngest of them, barely thirty years old, wild lifestyle, an artist himself. What was the thing that triggered the killer? What had caught this man's eye? Had he been watching them as he was watched himself when he sat there? He should focus on the other students as well when he was posing. Not just John.

His mind wandered off to his room mate, friend, blogger. He knew John had been attracted to him when they first met, four years ago. Just the way Sherlock was attracted to him from the first time he laid eyes on him. That short but trained body, the golden tone of his skin and those very blue eyes had come to his attention. He had made sure during that first dinner that he wasn't interested in any kind of relationship or something, but maybe he could have this man just for a night...

But after they had talked and were solving their first crime together, he had felt the same attraction to the man's mind. That first night, standing in the hallway of 221b, out of breath from running for the police, giggling together, he had looked at the man next to him and knew he was madly falling in love with this marvelous creature.  
And of course Sherlock had panicked. Normally he loved to explore the unknown, giving himself a challenge and to drive away the boredom that always lingered in his mind. But not with John. The feelings were too much, too intense and there was too much at stake. He finally made a friend. Not just a friend, no. He found himself a best friend, a pal, a partner. A man who didn't question him, who laughed at his tantrums and dealt with them, someone who listened to his deductions without judging him and calling him a freak, but praised him instead. A man who saw all of him, and still hadn't run away. Of course John had an opinion and wasn't scared to share it with him, even pushed him to his limits and sometimes even over them.  
He was extraordinary.  
The kind, nice doctor with his awful jumpers and caring eyes, the fierce army captain with his steady hand, killer instinct and steel like gaze, the hot and seductive man with the heated eyes and a reputation that gave him the nickname Three Continents Watson. And somehow it was all packed together in the same man. And now he could add the artist on that list. A man who could work with the different shades of his pencils, creating. It was extraordinary. He was extraordinary. Not something to lose easily without losing a part of himself.

Sherlock needed to clear his mind. To get the picture of his room mate out of his head so he could focus back on the case. He stood up and went for his violin, picking it up and putting it under his chin. The soft sounds filled the room and his head, pressing almost every thought about John aside.

~

When John came home after his day of work at the doctor’s office, he saw that Sherlock had put up pictures of all the course members, the three prime suspects pinned in the middle, a lot of notes next to them, and something that looked like a printed out exelsheet with only numbers on it. He knew better than to ask what they all meant, so instead he went into the kitchen to put the take away he had gotten onto two plates, hoping to get Sherlock to eat something today.  
Yesterday he had gone off to work, only to find Sherlock exactly the same as he left him that morning. Lying on the couch in his pyjamas and dressing gown, his eyes closed an his hands in front of his face, completely gone into his mind palace. The man in question was now sitting behind his microscope, totally unaware of John rummaging around in the kitchen behind him.

John sat a plate with food in front of him and took a seat at the other side of the kitchen table when Sherlock looked up at him.  
"What's this?" He asked, frowning to the plate as if it had just said something very offensive.  
"Thai. You need to eat something."  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose and was going back to his microscope when John cleared his throat.  
"Sherlock. You'll be sitting half naked in a freezing room for at least four hours tonight, while there are fourteen people staring at you. You don't want to sit there with a growling stomach. Now, eat."  
The look John gave him was something in between the 'Fuck you and do as I say' Captain Watson look and the 'trust me; I know what I'm saying’ Doctor Watson look.  
Sherlock knew that if he refused now, John would get really angry (the not good one) and Sherlock wanted to prevent that. Tonight John was going to draw again, and he didn't want to spoil it for him. 

With a dramatic sight he took up his chopsticks and started to stir in his food, putting some of it in his mouth. He saw the smug grin on John's face and stopped himself just in time to give him one back. After a few bites Sherlock decided he had enough, and he stood up from the table.

"I'm going to take a quick shower and dress myself for tonight. We have to be there a bit earlier this time, so we can talk to the students before we begin."  
John nodded approvingly and took another bite of his Thai. Sherlock retreated himself towards the bathroom, while John finished his dinner alone.

They took a cab to the art school. It wasn’t raining this time, but the sun was already settling itself behind the horizon, making the air drop a few degrees. John held a folder in his hand in which he could stack his work later tonight. Sherlock was wearing those ridiculous tight jeans again, and had put on a jumper that John had never seen before. By the looks of it, Sherlock had purchased it himself. It fitted him perfectly and even though it was a jumper, it still looked posh as hell. John looked out of the window and smirked.

Bloody posh boy.

They made it on time to the art school this time, and they split up as soon as they were entering the cafeteria, talking to different people, their main focus on the three primary suspects, until Esmeralda came to ask them to follow her to the classroom.

The group walked behind her. John was walking next to David Wolf, talking and laughing. Sherlock was right behind them, walking with the much more reserved Liam Murphy, who was talking in a soft voice about the closing art shop in the centre of town.

David leaned a bit closer to John, as if he wanted to hear him better. Their shoulders touched for a second and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the sight, feeling protective all of the sudden. He pushed the feeling back down and listened further to the man next to him. Once in the classroom, the students went to their desks to set up their working space, while Sherlock went to the back and took off his jumper and shirt underneath. Thank god the heater was working now. Tuesday he was freezing. (Although he would never admit it, of course.) Now the room felt nice. He folded his clothes onto the desk chair in the separate room before heading out to the classroom to take his place in the middle of the room again. He took the pose he had held Tuesday for over three hours, remembering it as if he did this on a daily basis. It earned him an approving smile from Esmeralda. She excused herself to the group for the cold from last class, and assured them that they would work the full four hours this time. After a few minutes the whole classroom was silent again. Only the soft tones of the classical background music, the sound of brushes and pencils over paper and canvas and the murmured advises of the teacher were there. Sherlock had planned to focus himself at the other students this time, but he did need to hold this pose. So his eyes were stuck on John again. Not that he was complaining about it. The man seemed to has forgotten everything around him. The pencil in his hand had become a piece of him instead of a tool to use. His eyes were focused and the tip of his tongue stroked his lips from time to time. It must be the same pose and focus that he used when he worked as a trauma surgeon. Just like Sherlock thought he would. It was fascinating.

After one and a half hour, Sherlock felt his back getting irritated. He shifted a bit on his chair which Esmeralda noticed, and she immediately called for a break.

The students stretched themselves and went out to the cafeteria or outside to smoke. Just like Tuesday, Sherlock first went to the back to put on his jumper and jacket, and he saw that John and the other students had already left the classroom when he reappeared. Only Esmeralda was still in the room, standing behind John's desk again, looking down at the sketch. Without looking up she signed Sherlock to come closer and have a look.

He could see John was almost finished with it. The hard lines he had seen two days ago were gone. They were faded down to become shadows. He could see the muscles stretched underneath the skin, the few moles that covered his body were at the exact right spots, and his hair was damp, just as it had been Tuesday. When Sherlock saw the drawn droplet of rain that had fell down from his hair to run down his torso, only to get stuck in few hairs just above the waistband of the jeans, he shivered. He felt goose bumps coming up and his breath caught. This wasn't just a drawing; this was a piece of art in the making. It was masculine, but also graceful, elegant, and even a bit erotic, but it was also very him. The only thing that John had yet to complete was his face. It was set up already, and Sherlock could see where his lips would part a bit, and where the small wrinkles of his eyes were going to be.

"Are you sure your man isn't a professional artist?"  
Esmeralda asked, breaking the spell. Sherlock looked at her, a bit confused.  
"What? O, yes. I'm sure."  
"What does he do for a living then?"  
"He's a doctor. A surgeon."  
Sherlock said, with a bit of proud in his voice. Esmeralda raised her eyebrows and smirked at him.  
"Well, you should keep this one. He's quite a catch."  
"I intent to."  
Esmeralda put the drawing back upside down and Sherlock went out. He really needed some air. 

Outside there were people smoking. With a sigh Sherlock took out a small pack of cigarettes and lit one, putting the package back into the pocket of his jacket. He missed his Belstaff. The jeans he was wearing were not particularly comfortable and far too cold for this time of year, and the jacket was too short to warm his legs.

"Hey, Gerald." David greeted him. Sherlock nodded towards him and went to stand next to him, the dark blonde woman (Cindy? Christy? Chloe?) at his other side.  
"You're a very skilled model, aren't you? Christ! It's that I can see you breathe from time to time, otherwise I would swear I was looking at a statue!"  
The woman smiled at David's remark, and Sherlock decided to get along with it.  
"Well, yes. It's a state of mind. And the pose isn't that hard. Esmeralda told me that you're all doing very well and that next week we will take a new pose."

Sherlock inhaled from his cigarette, folding his arm around him to keep himself warm. David lit himself another cigarette and started talking again.  
"Your boyfriend, John. He's a bit of a quiet man, is he? I've looked over his shoulder Tuesday to see what he was creating, and from the looks of it, he knows what he's doing. But he doesn’t want anyone to see his work. What's the deal with that?"  
Sherlock shrugged.   
"He's a private man. And I think he's a bit insecure about his work. It has been a long time since he held a pencil."  
"Is it? I heard Esmeralda say to him that it looked good. She never gives compliments if they're not earned." The other man (Han? Hank? Harry?) mingled in. Sherlock just shrugged again. He took a big inhalation from his cigarette and shot the bum away.  
"I'm going in to get some coffee and warm up a bit. I've still got at least two more hours to sit still for you guys. See you inside."  
With big steps he went back in, to see how John was holding up.

John was in the cafeteria having a boring conversation with Marc Jenkins. The man wasn't a talker, and John had to pull the words out of him. They talked about everyday stuff, the weather, cars, and so about the new car the man had bought.  
"It's a new model. I ordered it in a special colour, metallic mouse grey. It comes in handy with those sliding doors for my mother. She's in a wheelchair. This way I can take her out of town from time to time."  
John tried to look impressed, but couldn't care less about the man's new MPV. John would be happy when they could return to their work. Even looking at Sherlock's way to attractive torso and hiding his blush was better than entertaining himself with this man. The man was bloody boring.

John's face lit up when Sherlock entered the cafeteria. The man was really into character. Acting a bit clumsy, being open to everyone and smiling, (bloody fake, John could tell, but the rest seemed to accept it.) as if he enjoyed their company. He even lost a bit of his posh voice. John couldn't help but grin at it. This was definitely not the man he lived with. Sherlock joined John and Marc, and he did take an interest in the man's new car. (Or acted like it, to be precise.) Knowing what model it was and what it's consumption in urban cycle was. (Really, Sherlock?)  
When the pause was over and they got back into the classroom, John walked next to Sherlock. Happy to know that he was allowed to stare at that man for at least more two hours without being questioned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead of repressing the feeling as he usually did, he let it flow over him. He felt his cheeks redding and his heart beat hard against his ribs. The realization hit him. After four years since meeting this remarkable man, his feelings hadn't changed a bit, but only had gone stronger. He was still deeply in love with this wonderful, beautiful man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feelings, they are so unpredictable! And mixing them with alcohol is never a good idea...  
> Thanks for all your feedback! Next Chapter will be uploaded Wednesday!

They were back home again. Sherlock had dressed himself in his favorite pajama bottoms and dressing gown, and was seated in his chair in front of the hearth, while John had taken his shoes off and was walking around barefooted.

"Care for a drink?" He asked Sherlock from his spot in the kitchen. Sherlock looked up from the papers scattered in his lap.  
"Drink?"  
"Yeah. A beer or something stronger?"  
Sherlock frowned. It was a weekday. John never drank alcohol on weekdays. As if John could hear his thoughts he walked back into the living room with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey in his hands.  
"I'm having a week off. So technically tonight it's the start of my weekend."

John raised a questioning eyebrow and signed to the glasses and bottle in his hand. Sherlock took a deep breath.  
"O well, why not."  
John put the glasses down with a grin and poured them both a glass with the honey coloured liquid.  
He sighed as he sat down in his own chair, making a soft noise of comfort, his bare feet facing the fire on his left. Sherlock watched him for a moment before focusing back on the papers in his lap. He had everything he could find about the three suspects printed out, and he was scanning the documents now. As he worked his way systematically through all the files, he deduced that Liam Murphy was probably off the hook. The man had been abroad working for the government at the time two of the victims disappeared.

That left David Wolf and Marc Jenkins. His heart jumped at this step forward. Only a week in, and they already narrowed it down to two possible suspects. He lifted his head to share his deduction with his friend, but John was staring in the flames. The glass of whiskey in his hand, his face relaxed and his thoughts far away. Sherlock's lifted the corner of his mouth and put the papers on the table next to him, just to pick up the glass and take a sip. He let the liquid roll over his tongue and closed his eyes. He swallowed it down, enjoying the feeling the alcohol left in his throat.

Time to look into the case of the artistic doctor.

"You're enjoying the course." He stated.  
John broke his gaze from the flames and looked at the man sitting across him.  
"Yes. I am."  
"You enjoy to draw."  
"I do." John said, a small smile returning on his face. Sherlock smiled back at him. He raised his glass to his lips and took another sip, emptying his glass, copying the sight in front of him. He reached for the bottle and poured them both another one.

"I heard the others say that Esmeralda was very impressed with your work. Even though you wouldn't show it to anyone else." He said nonchalant, putting the cap back on the bottle and set it down beside him.  
"Did you?" John said after a few seconds of silence.  
"Yes. They came to ask me about it."  
"What did you tell them?"  
Sherlock sighed and sat up a little.  
"I told them that you are private. And that you haven't drawn in a long time, and probably are a bit insecure about your work. You told me your work was terrible. But I have to say that i know you lied about that. You've managed to impress the teacher."  
John grinned, putting the glass against his lips again. He seemed to be in a good mood, and Sherlock felt that he could push it a bit, finding answers.  
"You told me that you used to draw as a child. When did you stop?"  
"I stopped when I stopped having fun doing it."  
"Why?"  
John sighed and rubbed his hand over his upper leg, as he did when he got uncomfortable.  
"Sherlock." He started. Sherlock could see John brace himself a bit.  
"I used to draw almost every day, for years. I learned that it eased my mind, but then... Something happened. And I made a choice."  
"What happened?"  
John shook his head.  
"I don't want to talk about it. But let's just say, that I'm happy that you took this case. It opened a lot of new opportunities for me. I was afraid that I couldn't enjoy this again. But I do. So... Thank you, Sherlock."

John emptied his glass again, but did not take off to his bedroom to hide, as Sherlock had expected him to.

"Do you still have your childhood drawings?"He asked.  
Sherlock's voice was just a bit more than a whisper, and he saw the small smile coming back at John's face, while he was staring at the flames again. Sherlock looked at the man in front of him. He studied how his face was lit by just the fire in the hearth, a small smile playing on the man's lips. It was perfection. Sherlock felt a sweet ache in his stomach and chest. And instead of repressing this feeling as he usually did, he let it flow over him. He felt his cheeks redding and his heart beat hard against his ribs. The realization hit him. He had been carefully avoiding this. Shutting it out and ignoring it. Keeping his statement of being a sociopath, a machine. But he had been fooling himself for years, thinking that he could control this. After four years since meeting this remarkable man, his feelings hadn't changed a bit, but only had gone stronger. He was still deeply in love with this wonderful, beautiful man.

He took the glass of whiskey and poured the liquid down his throat, when John turned his head towards him. His eyes were soft and sweet, and Sherlock almost reached out to him. But the stakes were too high. He wasn't sure how John would react to it. Would he pull back, or would he welcome Sherlock? Would he reach out to him too? Longing for a touch? Was it something John would want too? Instead of following this urge, he picked up the bottle again and poured their glasses once more.

"You know, I do." John said.  
Sherlock was shocked for a second. Had he been thinking out loud?  
"And despite my earlier statement, I would like to show them to you. I owe you that much. Wait here."  
Sherlock's heart restarted itself when he realized John was talking about his sketchbook and not the thoughts in Sherlock head, while John got up and went to his bedroom to get some of his work.

When he got down again a few minutes later, Sherlock had recovered himself.  
John gave him a sketchbook in hands.  
"I... Ehm... This one ends in 2003, I think. It was one of my sketchbooks that I used in medical school."  
Sherlock looked at the cover of the sketchbook, before opening it carefully.  
It was the sketchbook with the anatomical drawings and the portraits of his fellow students at that time. But looking at them with the maker in front of him, gave it another load. Sherlock studied every drawing with his full attention, admiring the details and the feelings it somehow brought up. After at least twenty minutes, he closed the sketchbook and looked at John, who was staring at the flames again. But his face wasn't that at ease as it had been before. Sherlock could see the little frown in his forehead and he saw the slightest tremor in his hand.

"This is beautiful." Sherlock said his voice not more than a whisper.  
"Thank you for sharing this with me. It is gorgeous."  
He saw John nod his head once, not turning his face towards him. The tremble in his hand had disappeared, and the glass was empty once more in his hand. He looked sad. And Sherlock recognized the sign that this was the moment to step back, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He put the sketchbook down at the table next to his chair, stroking it with his long fingers, before he got up and retreated himself towards his bedroom, giving John space. Just before he closed the bedroom door behind him he looked over his shoulder once more, and saw tears running down his best friend's face.

~

They didn't talk about the drawings again. When Sherlock got into the living room the next morning the sketchbook was gone. John was acting normal again; the emotions of Thursday night seemed to be buried away somewhere. Sherlock was thankful for this turn of the events. He had no idea how to handle a situation like that. And neither did John apparently. So they both just acted like it never happened.

They did talk about the case. They were able to pick up files from all the twelve students participating the course, thanks to Sherlock's skill of hacking the Yards network and that one (or two) from his brother. Although John had the slightest presumption that Mycroft let his little brother break in into his system, as long as the information he needed wasn't too confident or dangerous. But John kept his suspicions for himself, not wanting to get Sherlock into a tantrum while he was in the middle of a case. As far as John could tell, the man hadn't slept since Thursday, acting like the hurricane he was, making deductions and pacing across the room, clearing his mind by thinking out loud and talking to John. John tried to push him to get some rest, just to sleep for some hours, but Sherlock declined, as usual. They worked the case almost non-stop for four days now, giving John some respite of a four or five hours of sleep each night. And when they finally managed to rule out all the other students and came to some sort of conclusion, John collapsed into his bed on Monday evening.

Within minutes John was fast asleep. He didn't even take his trousers or shoes off. His face was buried deep in his pillow, his blanked only covering part of his back.

Sherlock was still up. His mind too busy to rest yet. He could feel his transport asking for some respite, but he needed to organize his head first. He was pacing across the room, thoughts were spinning through his mind, sucking up every bit of information around him, making deductions on his own.

_Fire getting low. Three small pieces of wood left. Burning time left approximately one hour and thirty five minutes. John's novel lying on the table next to his chair. Still on page seventy-eight. Stared at it for twenty-two minutes today, feigning to read. Sirens in the distance. Police. In a hurry, probably going about forty miles an hour. Belstaff on coat rack. Still damp from the rain from this afternoon. Need to dry for approximately three more hours. Unless the fire dies out in one hour and twenty-seven minutes, then it will take six hours and fifteen minutes. Skull turned seventeen percent to the left. John must have bumped it when getting to his chair this afternoon. Sound downstairs. Mrs. Hudson getting ready for bed. Turning off the television and the lights, will turn on the water in the bathroom within two minutes, unless she has been smoking her herbals again, then it would take her at least three to four minutes. Weather dry, not to cold, so no need to smoke herbals for her hip. Creak upstairs. John turning over in bed. Probably woken up and found out he was still wearing his shoes. Soft bump from upstairs, left shoe. Another bump. Right shoe. Silence again. So not taking of the rest of his clothing. Buzz from the refrigerator. Still has samples of human calves inside. Have to throw them out tomorrow. Need to find new calves. Car horn in the distance. People walking by, talking out loud. Drunk, on their way home. Couple? Yes. Woman not being as drunk as she  pretense to be. Mug with cold tea on desk. Put down by John for him at four thirty one this afternoon. Four sugars, making it cool down quicker. Must have been one hour and six minutes to get to room temperature. Spilled a bit when putting it down, leaving some liquid on the desk. This dried within three minutes. Mrs Hudson or John would probably clean it up tomorrow. John saw those things. John. John saw a lot. to much? Not enough? He had an artist eye. Shading, black and grey on white paper, working with graphite pencils, made of a mixture of clay and graphite and their darkness varies from light grey to black. Light and shadows, all sprung from the right hemisphere,  a conscious system in its own right, perceiving, thinking, remembering, reasoning, willing, and emoting, all at a characteristically human level, and  both the left and the right hemisphere may be conscious simultaneously in different, even in mutually conflicting, mental experiences that run along in parallel._

_Stop!_

He went to get his pack of cigarettes (which he had hidden for John, of course)  And lit one up. He stopped his pacing across the room and went to stand in front of the window, looking out at the almost empty street below him, pulling on his cigarette, enjoying the taste.

_Ten down, two to go. David or Marc, Marc or David, David or Marc, Marc or David. Which one of you likes to collect male art models?_

When his cigarette was finished, his head was still working full speed. He needed to make it stop. Or at least slow down a bit.

_How how how?!_

Cocaine. Letting the drugs enter his vain, making its way down his whole body, hitting his brain and increase the dopamine release, giving him an elevated mood. No.That would upset John, a lot. He didn't want to upset John, ever. But he had made the man cry Thursday night. He had giving John pain. Pain he couldn't take away. Pain he should not had brought up again in the first place, just because he was curious about the drawings. No. He would try to do everything to keep John happy and around. He was truly lost without his blogger.  Sherlock reached for his violin and started to tune the snares with his fingers. When they sounded the way he wanted, he took his bow and started playing. His eyes closed and his face lit by the lamppost outside.

 ~

John woke up. He turned himself onto his back, feeling his jeans turn around his waist and legs. Shit. He forgot to take them off last night. He squeezed an eye open and looked at his clock on the nightstand. Four forty six in the morning. Good. That meant he still had a few hours to go. He unbuttoned his jeans and wriggled himself out of them, pushing the jeans off the bed with his feet. He reached for his blanket to put over himself again and let himself enjoy the warmth of his bed and the silence of the early morning.

Silence. Did that mean that Sherlock finally slept? He listened intensely for any sounds coming from downstairs. Nothing. It was about time. That man drove himself to far sometimes. They had another art class to attend tonight, and it was for the best as the model wasn't going to fall asleep while the students were observing him. Tonight they would start a new pose. Sherlock already had contact with Esmeralda, (really getting too much in character there) and it was going to be a back study. As if his heart hadn't suffered enough already. He had seen Sherlock's back before, of course. He even stitched it up on one occasion. It was just as beautiful as the front of the man. John clenched his fists in his blanket.

This whole drawing course had awoken the butterflies in his stomach again. They had been quiet for months now. Not that they had ever been truly gone, just quiet. They did die though, two years ago. They died together with the man he loved more than anyone in the world. His world had gone grey and the butterflies died, leaving an hollow, empty space inside. And not just the butterflies died. His heart had stopped beating, stopped existing, his heart had died too. But Sherlock came back. He came back after he had made sure that the threat towards John was destroyed.

At first John had thought he truly had lost his mind, that he finally had hit rock bottom and saw things that were not there. But when he realized that the man in front of him was real and alive, he had hit him. He had hit him hard, almost broke his nose, actually. And when he finally stopped shouting at him, calling him names and cursing him, he had cried. John had cried his heart out. And Sherlock had held him tight in his arms, letting John cry out all the pain and suffering he had felt that last year. Sherlock had brought him to bed, tucked him in, stroked his hair and stayed with him until he fell asleep, a single butterfly in his stomach gingerly coming back to life, and his heart had started beating again.

But after that night, everything had changed. It felt as if Sherlock finally managed to convince himsèlf of being a sociopath, instead of letting everybody else believe it. He was more distant from his feelings and emotions than he had ever been before the fall. The only thing that seemed to matter to him anymore was the work. But John could see cracks in that mask. From time to time John saw a real smile on Sherlock's face, he felt the man's eyes linger to long at him, and he could see joy sparkle in his eyes when John did something stupid or funny. And with every small and careful step Sherlock took to become more himself again, the butterflies in John's stomach seemed to flutter more and more. The last two months had been hard. Sherlock's mask seemed to crack further and further, revealing the true man underneath. His actions were more thoughtful; he tried to take John's feelings into account. He laughed more and John had even seen him blush a few times. When he took on the case of the missing art models, he went even further. Sherlock seemed intrigued with this new side of John he had never shown him before. But getting back in touch with his creative side made him more emotive, affectionate. It was starting to get harder and harder to ignore the butterflies that were just trashing his stomach now. 

When Sherlock sat there being drawn, he only seemed to have eyes for him. It was too much. That torso covered in goose bumps, nipples hard, Sherlock's eyes boring in his. John had gotten hard instantly, as if he was some hormone driven teenager. He had looked at Sherlock as if he wanted to devour him. Own him. And Sherlock had seen that. When that damn droplet had run down the man's chest, John had to look away. And afterwards, Sherlock hadn't confronted him with it. The man who always wanted to know everything didn't ask. Had he parted himself so far from human feelings and emotions that he didn't recognize it? Had he deleted it or was he really that oblivious about what he had seen in John's eyes? No, it couldn't be. Last Thursday they had a connection. Talking, drinking. Sherlock carefully asking questions as if he was some shy bird that could fly away every second. Sherlock had looked at him, and if he was honest with himself, he thought he saw affection in those eyes. Then, John had seen him looking in the sketchbook he had given him. There were definitely emotions on his face at that point.

John turned on his back again.

Christ! He was never going to be able to sleep again when his mind was focused on Sherlock. He really should stop thinking about his roommate. The possibility that this genius, cocky, self-centered, wanting to be sociopath whirlwind of a man had a soft spot for a forty year old, short, retired army doctor were nil. And he definitely wasn't going to push his luck. Scared to lose this marvel that had become the most important thing in his life now. He already lost him once and that had been unbearable. John just had to keep his emotions at bay and try to not scare Sherlock off. That was something he could do. He already managed to do it for the last four years. No big deal.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John let out a soft giggle.  
> "Good? Are you kidding me? It is perfect, Sherlock. Absolutely perfect. I... I just... Well, thank you. I want to thank you. It's very thoughtful of you, very sweet."  
> O god. Why did he say that?  
> "Sweet? I'm not sweet."  
> John could just hear the confusion in Sherlock's voice, and despite the big slip he just made, he had to laugh at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And more feelings!  
> Sherlock showing his soft side (and something more.) John's getting warm (from both), But we can't blame him. Who can resist such a picture in front of them?
> 
> Happy reading! Kudos make me smile!

John woke up. He blinked his eyes and stretched his body, making a satisfying sound while at it. What time was it? He looked at the clock at his side. Ten to eleven. Damn. He slept for ages. Time to get up and make something of today. He dressed himself in a dressing gown, grabbed a towel from his wardrobe and went downstairs to take a shower. The living room was empty. Was Sherlock still asleep then? Seemed impossible. John shrugged and went inside the bathroom, taking his time to shower and shave. When he emerged the shower thirty five minutes later, there was still no sign of life in the apartment. John went into the kitchen, flicked the switch of the kettle, and went upstairs to get himself properly dressed. When he came downstairs again, he poured himself a strong cup of tea and started to make breakfast. Sitting down at the kitchen table he looked at his phone.  
  
1 new message:  
  
_'I'm out talking to the relatives of the disappeared men. Meet you tonight at the art school. Package on the desk is yours. SH'_  
  
  
Package? What package? He took a bite of his toast while standing up to check the desk in the living room. There was indeed a package. It looked like it was a carton box wrapped up in a dark brown paper. Curiously John picked it up and brought it with him to the sofa. He sat down and turned the package in his hands. Sherlock said it was for him, so he should be able to open in without being scared that it would explode or have some extremely contaminated experimental tubes inside. But still, it was Sherlock, so who knew?  
  
John set the box down on top of the coffee table and started unwrapping it. The brown paper got of easily and when he opened the carton box his heart stuttered.  
  
There was a gift box inside. Carefully he took it out and stared at it in his hands. It was an exclusive Caran d'Ache Graphite Line deluxe set, complete with eraser and sharper. It was a set of one of the best pencils available; it must have cost a fortune. Sherlock had bought him a pencil set. Not just any set, but something special. How could he have known that the pencils of Caran d'Ache were his favorite? He never bought something so exclusive for himself, just the normal, everyday pencils they sell at any art shop. But this set was amazing. John opened the box and let his fingers slide over the pencils, neatly stocked next to each other. Beautiful.  
  
But there was even more inside the box.  
  
John pulled out a handcrafted wooden pencil box. It was a simple design. The wood was dark, almost black with a hint of red in it, a small copper lip kept the lid down. The texture felt like satin underneath his fingers. He opened the box and saw the inside was padded with a soft lining to hold his new set. The compartments inside would make sure he could stash his eraser and sharper, and he could organize his pencils by hardness inside.  
  
The last item inside the box was a sketchbook. It held heavy quality paper inside, with just the right amount of texture he liked. It was of the same brand he used to buy for himself. He always bought himself good paper.  
  
John stared at the items in front of him, letting the feeling of gratefulness and something else he was definitely not acknowledging wash over him, and before he could change his mind, he got up and reached for his phone.  
  
"John."  
"Sherlock."  
A pause.  
"Slept good?" Sherlock managed to get out. John smiled.  
"As a matter of fact, I have. Yes. Thank you. Did you sleep?"  
"A bit."  
"You did?"  
"Yes. The transport needed a break."  
"Is that your way of saying that you couldn't stand on your legs anymore because of exhaustion?"  
"Shut up."  
John could just hear the smirk on Sherlock's face when he said that.  
"Where are you?"  
"South of London. Just finished my interview with the last victim’s late wife."  
"So you're having fun without me, then."  
Now he could hear Sherlock chuckle.  
"Impossible." He answered.  
John was glad that Sherlock could not see his flushed face at the moment.  
"Okay, so... eh... I got the package."  
"You did? Was it... Good?"  
John let out a soft giggle.  
"Good? Are you kidding me? It is perfect, Sherlock. Absolutely perfect. I... I just... Well, thank you. I want to thank you. It's very thoughtful of you, very sweet."  
O god. Why did he say that?  
"Sweet? I'm not sweet."  
John could just hear the confusion in Sherlock's voice, and despite the big slip he just made, he had to laugh at it.  
"Yes, you can be, you git. If you want too you can be quite adorable. I'm very happy with your gift, Sherlock. You managed to get me speechless."  
"That happens all the time, nothing to make fuzz about."  
"Yeah, well, thanks."  
"I'm heading towards the Yard now. Looking into some papers to see if I can find any unidentified body's fitting any of the victim’s descriptions."  
"Good luck with that."  
"I'll meet you tonight at the art school?"  
"You will."  
"Bring your new set. I'm curious to hear your thoughts about using them."  
"I was planning to."  
"Alright. Goodbye, John."  
"Bye, Sherlock."  
  
When Sherlock ended the call he leaned himself against the wall behind him, trying to steadying his heart beat and breathing to a normal rhythm again. It was a good thing John didn't see him like this. All flushed and wobbly, only because the man said that he thought he could be sweet, adorable even. The only one who had ever said something like that to him was his mother. And that didn't count. Every mother thinks their offspring is adorable.  
Get yourself together, Holmes!  
It was just a matter of speech. A way to show how thankful John was. Nothing more.  
  
~  
  
That evening, when John arrived at the art school he was a bit late. The class would start in ten minutes. Just in time to get himself a cup of coffee and chat up with some of his fellow students. When he walked towards the door, he could see David standing in the shadows, smoking a cigarette.  
“Good evening.”  John greeted him.  
“Good evening, looking forward for tonight? “  
John lifted an eyebrow.  
“You know. Back study?  There will be a lot of flesh to draw, very difficult. And, no offence, but your man is rather hot. A proper piece of eye candy, I would say. I can think of worse things to paint.”  
David smirked at him. John felt jealousy and anger coming up and he clenched his fists, his lips became a small line and his eyes started to spit fire.  
“Too bad he’s already taken, isn’t it?”  
He hissed.  
The smile disappeared from David’s face.  
“Yes he is, isn’t he?” he replied, his eyes scanning John’s face.

  
Feeling very uncomfortable, John told him he was going to go inside, to grab himself a cup of coffee now he still could, before the class was starting.   
Walking inside, his mind was rushing. Was he on to them? Did he see that they weren't actually a couple? Did the man figure out that is was all just a cover? Did John just blew their cover? Or was it something else? David just told him that he thought it was to bad that the man was already taken. God. If they had decided to go into this without acting as a couple, he would probably be all over Sherlock. Good thing then that they got that covered.  
John went to get a cup of coffee in the cafeteria and greeted his fellow students. Chatted for a few minutes, and followed after Esmeralda when she came to get them.

He took a seat behind his desk and pulled the pencil box out of his bag, putting it at his left side on the desk. Then he studied the object in the center of the room. There was a low bench in the middle of the room. Esmeralda threw a white sheet over it while Sherlock emerged from the small room where he dressed himself. He was wearing his dressing gown, and he looked more like himself than like Gerald with it. Barefooted he walked towards the low bench, and when his eyes met John's, he gave him a small smile. Gracefully he got onto the bench and turned his back towards the students. He sat himself down in a cross-legged position and shrugged of his gown. He stretched his neck before settling his arms on the wooden backrest spreading his arms wide. His long arms made his hands almost reach the left and right end of the object. The pose made his back wider, his shoulder blades more expressive. Sherlock shifted a bit, and brought his left arm up, his elbow still on the backrest, his hand settling itself under his chin. When he was comfortable, he closed his eyes. Esmeralda pulled away the dressing gown straddling his hips, and John could see the posh black boxer he was wearing underneath. When Esmeralda returned with another white sheet, john felt relieved. She arranged it around Sherlock's hips and covered his legs with it, but then she pulled the back down a bit, including his boxers.  
  
Holy shit.  
  
John (and all the others) could now see the beginning of the man's perfect arse. When Esmeralda was satisfied with the pose she created, she stepped back and admired the view.  
She turned back around and winked at John before talking to the class. But John didn't hear a word of what she was saying. That arse was fucking distracting. He could imagine the jealous look that David would have on his face now. Christ. John would be jealous of himself too, if that arse was his to touch. But it wasn't. And it definitely wasn't David's to touch either.  
Thoughtless John had already started to draw a raster on the paper in front of him. And finished it, by the looks of it. He steadied himself again and started to look at the shadows and highlights of the man's back in front of him. He could see the muscles. Sherlock's frame was lanky, but even with the horrible diet he had, running around London chasing criminals had done his work on that body. He was a bit too thin.

John could slightly see his ribs when Sherlock inhaled, and suddenly he asked himself how Sherlock would have looked as a teenager. That face full with sharp lines with big unruffled dark curls on top of it, his body long and slender, gangly limbs and probably a constant look of boredom on his face. He would have been on himself a lot, constantly insulting his classmates and teachers, his head tugged away in books. Sherlock had told him that himself. He was an loner, an einzelganger. He had no interest in the people around him whatsoever. The opposite of himself, really. John had been short and sturdy all his life. As a sports fanatic playing rugby and football and with a healthy appetite, he had always been muscled and maneuverable. He was quick and strong. He smiled a lot and was sort of popular. The other young men liked him, because he was good in sports, he was nice to everybody, he didn't have an air and was always willing to help. The young woman liked him too. He was a gentleman, never bragged about his latest victories like the other men, he was romantic, caring, honest and a extremely passionate lover. In bed, being strong and maneuverable was a big plus. Count in his stamina and his will to please, and he was considered a great fuck. He didn't get the Three Continent nickname for nothing.

  
He had changed over the years of course. He wasn't the popular boy anymore, he smiled less then he used too, and he wasn't that quick and maneuverable as he used to be. But that happens when you get older. The man in front of him had changed too. Instead of gangly he had gotten lean, instead of hiding himself mocking in the library, thinking that everyone around him was an idiot, he now went out and told everyone that they were idiots, he still mocked, but he also had fun chasing criminals and solving mysteries. They both changed. Life happened.  
John looked at the sketch he made on the paper in front of him. The lines were a perfect match with the study object in front of him. It was time to add the first shadows to his work. But not before they all had taken a break.  
  
The class dismissed for coffee and tea and the occasional smoke. John waited in the classroom for Sherlock. He hadn't seen him the whole day, and he felt the need to be close to him. When Sherlock got out of the room walking towards him, john saw that he was wearing one of his jumpers again.  
"Nicked another one?" John asked, nodding towards the jumper.  
Sherlock shrugged.  
"Have to keep in my role, John. And it's to big for you anyway. How was it?"  
John rolled his eyes.  
"Good, Sh..Gerald. Although I think you've got some heads spinning with that crack of yours." John said, flushing a bit.  
Sherlock laughed out loud.  
"Well, thank you, John. But I was talking about your new pencils."  
"Smug bastard." John muttered, getting even more blush on his cheeks and another laugh in return. Sherlock was looking at the works of the students.  
"My god. Why are those people even trying? Look at this. It's hideous."  
"Oi! Show a little respect. At least they are doing it."  
"There not as good as you are. Can I see your work now?"  
"It's only a sketch yet. I'll promise I'll show it to you when it's finished, okay?"  
Sherlock's face lit up and looked genuinely happy.  
"Deal. Let's go and ask some more around. I'll go outside to smoke, you'll cover the cafeteria? Try to talk to Mark, I'll try to talk to David."  
"Be careful around that guy." John said his voice dropping an octave. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.  
"I don't trust him." John explained.  
"Of course you don't. He's a suspect in a case of four missing and probably murdered man. I wouldn't trust him either."  
"Of course. Just promise me not to do anything stupid."  
Sherlock wanted to make a remark until he saw John's face.  
"I promise." He said instead.

They parted ways as soon as they left the classroom. John heading towards the cafeteria, Sherlock outside.  
There was only David smoking in front of the door. The others already back inside.  
"Hello." Sherlock greeted him.  
"Ah, hello Gerald. Came to pop out for a smoke?"  
"Yes. After two hours of sitting still I can use one of these." He said, pulling his package out of his pocket. He put a cigarette between his lips and thanked David for lighting it.  
"And, how is your work progressing?" He asked, feigning interest.   
"Quite good, I have to say. You're the best male model we've had in years. You're body looks like it's made to be painted and your posing is spectacular. It's hard to find models of your age and physique. The last one disappeared before I could finish my work."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  
"Disappeared? Really? How?"  
"Well, he never showed up again after six nights of sitting model. Great man, good model and a great artist himself. And he is not the only one. There were others before him. They all suddenly stopped coming. There was one that send an apology, telling us that he had to go out of the country for his work, but the others just stopped coming. To bad actually. All of them were nice and good artists themselves. You don't paint or draw, do you?"  
Davis asked him. Sherlock tilted his head.  
"No, I don't. No talent for that one, I'm afraid. How could you tell?"  
"I noticed that you never look at the works of the class, and when we talk about techniques, you listen but don't participate."  
David smirked at him and Sherlock laughed, a soft rumble out of his throat.  
"Observing type, then?"  
"Aren't all artists? Ow. You might have a talk with your man. I might have given him the wrong idea."  
"How do you mean?"

David was standing straight up from the wall he had been leaning against. He looked a bit embarrassed when he looked at Sherlock.  
"Well, we talked before class. And I might have told him that I thought your body was pretty hot. And I believe he now thinks that I'm after you. For a second I thought he would rip my throat out. Bloody hell. He's a jealous type, isn't he? But please, don't get me wrong. You are gorgeous, but not a man I would bed. He has nothing to worry about."  
When David saw the look on Sherlock's face he laughed.  
"God sorry. That came out wrong. You're not my type. You're the type that's demanding in bed, wants to be pleased. And I'm the same. Wouldn't work. That's it."  
David shot his cigarette away.  
"I'm going in. You're coming?"  
"In a bit. Just going to smoke this one first."  
David shrugged and walked inside.

  
Sherlock took another pull of his cigarette. John jealous? Impossible. Although the part of John looking as if he wanted to rip out someone's  throat sounded like something that could definitely had happened. He had seen the man furious, and it was truly frightening. But jealous? Why? For what? No. David must have mistaken himself. And what about the whole bedding thing? How could the man think he knew what he would like? He didn't even know himself. Not that he was inexperienced, no matter what his brother believed. Sex was something that people used to manipulate, what they could force up to another, where they committed crimes for, even murder. How could Sherlock not have studied that? Of course he had. Sometimes it was fun, but mostly it had been nothing more than gathering data. Men, woman, top, bottom, high, drunk, sober, long, short, he tried it. The only thing he disliked about it was the fact that he felt like he almost lost control over his body. His body was transport, his mind controlled it, not the other way around. And he couldn't afford to lose his control around anyone. Nobody was entitled to look through his shield, to see that he was just a man after all. There was no one who had the right to look into his soul. No one but one. And that was never going to happen. Sherlock stared into the darkness, pulling on his cigarette once more.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damn, this was embarrassing. While he pulled the sweater down around his chest, his head down as to see what he was doing, he glanced up trough his eyelashes. He could see the beginning of an erection in the other man's trousers. Bloody hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O no.... I'm so, so sorry for this one!  
> Thanks for all the bookmarks and the feedback!

In the cafeteria, John laughed at something Donna said, taking another sip of his coffee. Marc was talking to Phil, and before John could have joined them, he was greeted by Donna, who was curious about him. She was asking him all sorts of questions about his art, his work, and eventually his relationship status.

"So, John. Are you seeing anyone?"  
He felt the butterflies hit the walls of his stomach when he answered her.  
"O, god. Donna. Yes, actually, I am. "  
"Darn. All the good ones are taken. She must be a lucky lady."  
John smirked.  
"Well, I'm not sure if he sees it like that, but yes."  
Donna's face turned red and she started to move nervously.  
"I'm sorry! I didn't realize... It didn't occur to me you would be gay."  
"Yes well, that makes two of us."  
"Sorry?"  
"I don't consider myself gay. I just happen to have fallen in love with a man. Never planned on it."  
"We can't plan with who we fall in love with. That's the beauty of it, isn't it?"  
"I suppose you're right."  
"I'm happy for you. Not everybody gets the chance to find someone to love and get the same in return. Ow, hi Carla."

Donna smiled at the other woman who was walking towards them with a tray full of coffee and tea.  
"Hello Donna, John. Can I get you any tea or... Oh!"  
Carla tripped. The tray with coffee and tea fell from her hands, and before he knew it, John was covered in hot liquids.  
"O, shit! Sorry!! John, are you alright? Oh! Your shirt!"  
John managed to smile at the young woman.  
"I'm fine. Don't worry about it. I'm just going to get this off."  
John held the soaking jumper from his chest, careful not to burn himself, and hurried out to the bathroom down the hall.

Inside, he pulled the jumper and shirt over his head and wetted a towel that hang next to one of the mirrors. He pushed the cold towel against his heated chest, cooling it. He looked at his chest in the mirror to see to his relief that his skin wasn't burned. When he looked down at his jumper in the sink in front of him, he sighed. The jumper was soaking wet, as was the shirt he had worn underneath. That one was ruined. What was he going to wear now? He couldn't walk around half naked. He should steal his jumper back from Sherlock. He could wear his robe underneath his jacket. The man went outside in nothing get but a sheet, so that wouldn't be a problem.  
John closed his eyes and lowered his back, leaning both hands on the sink in front of him. The butterflies in his stomach fluttering happy around.  
_"I don't consider myself gay. I just happen to have fallen in love with a man."_  
It was true. It was something he had never said to anyone, ever. And now he said it. He even said it to a attractive woman who was definitely interested in him. Yes, it was an act, he was supposed to act as Gerald's boyfriend. It was not real. But it was.  
_"Not everybody gets the chance to find someone to love and get the same in return."_  
That was also true. Damn! How did he get himself into this mess?

He shook up when someone opened the door to the bathroom. It was David. For a second he felt the pinch of jealousy come up again, until he saw the man's face. There was no smug expression whatsoever on his face, and he even seemed to be a bit worried.   
"Hey John. I heard what happened. Are you alright? you didn't burn yourself, did you?"  
David's eyes were scanning John's torso. His gaze lingering to long on his hips, going back to his chest. John could see him swallow and saw a blush coming up on the man's cheeks.  
"Can I get you a spare sweatshirt? I have one in my car, just in case if I wanted to go sporting after work, you know."  
"Ta, David. That would be great. Can't walk around here like this."  
"Yes, you're right. Let's prevent that from happening. I'll be right back."  
David turned around and left the bathroom again. John let out a deep breath.  
That was awkward. If anyone had seen that, they would definitely talk.

Shaking his head he dried himself, and then he tried to wash the coffee stains out of his jumper. When David returned with the sweatshirt, John already stopped trying to rescue his jumper. It really was a lost cause. Instead, he threw it down the bin and thankfully accepted the piece of clothing David handed him.  
"Thanks, David. You rescued me here." David seemed fixed on John's torso, and John could see the man was impressed. John did keep his body fit, something he always had done. While John pulled the sweater over his head he could hear David gasp a little. Damn, this was embarrassing. While he pulled the sweater down around his chest, his head down as to see what he was doing, he glanced up trough his eyelashes. He could see the beginning of an erection in the other man's trousers. Bloody hell. He was only acting gay for two and a half weeks and only in a small group, and already there was a man with an obvious interest in him. Was this something woman had to endure all the time? That would be exhausting.  
John looked up again and smiled, as if he hadn't noticed the arousel of the man in front of him.  
"That's better. Thanks, David. I'll return it to you next Thursday, if that's fine by you?"  
"Sure mate, no problem!"

David held the door for John and he had no choice than to pass the man on his way out. He could just feel the eyes of the man behind him burning in his back. Great. Now he had to handle that too. John opened the door of the classroom where the others had already started again. Sherlock was sitting with his back towards him, so he didn't see John coming in with David. John hurried himself to his desk, and turned around his sketch again.

Right. Shadows. He tried to clear his head and not to look to much to that amazing arse in front of him, and started drawing the left shoulder.  
Sherlock lasted for more than two hours now. Letting everybody take their time to sketch, paint and draw. And it was because of Esmeralda that they stopped the lesson of this evening. The first thing Sherlock did was pull up his boxers (thank god) And he reached for his dressing gown before standing up and turn around towards John. When he saw the sweater he was wearing he frowned. John shrugged and looked as innocent as he could, getting an eye roll from the man in front of him that made him smile.

"John?" Esmeralda asked him. She was standing next to him, looking down at the work on the desk.  
"Can I ask you something?"  
"Yes... yes, sure."  
Sherlock turned towards the door of his dressing room and John finally managed to look away from him.

"Have you been drawing for a long time?  
"Yes, I have. Almost on a daily basis until a few years ago, actually."  
"Only pencil? Or did you try other things too?"  
"I tried some. But it was never as satisfying as working with pencils. I'm not the type who can wait for paint to dry. And things like charcoal is too messy for me."  
Esmeralda smiled up at him.  
" Your work, It's mind blowing. I would love to see more of it. If you feel like it, of course. If you have more like this, we can even make an exposition of them. I know several galleries that would be happy to provide the space for art like this."  
John felt panic coming up and started rattling.  
"O, ehm.. I'm sorry, Esmeralda, but I just can't. They are personal. I put too much of myself in them. I even never showed them to anyone ever before. I'm sorry."  
"No, no, no. Don't be. I understand. It's private. Your emotions are in those shades. It's like a diary. You don't show people your diary either."  
She put her hand on his, and when John saw the warmheartedness smile she gave him he smiled back.  
"But I'm thankful that you took this course. It makes me happy to see that there are more people with beautiful talents that use them. Even if they don't show it to the world. And you've let me see some of it."

She looked down at his drawing again.  
"This is now the second drawing you're making here. And I think it's very loaded. You can almost feel the emotions coming off from the paper. Is that something you can do with other people too? Or is it just because it's him?"  
John looked at his drawing in front of him. She was right. The previous drawing had something special. Something that he managed to do in the past with people who he really connected with, but not in the least on this level.  
"I think..." John sighed.  
"I managed to do this in the past. But only with people I felt a special connection to. People who got close to me, hit me in some way, I guess. But I never managed to get it so much like this before."  
"I think that's because you love him."  
"I've loved others before."  
"Yes. But probably not so intense as him. You can almost feel it looking at your work. You can see the admiration. If your drawing's are your diary, then this is an ode. A tribute to your heart, to the fact that you can love someone like that. And that's something you should be proud of."

Esmeralda blinked her eyes a few times and smiled softly at John again.  
"Well, that was a deeper conversation than I had meant it to be. You two should go home now. Enjoy each others company. Trust me, I'm a teacher, I know such things."  
She gave him a sweet smile and squeezed his hand before she turned around to gather her things.  
John carefully put his drawing in his folder, and he when he stuffed his pencil box into his bag Sherlock was standing besides him.  
"Ready?"  
"Yes."  
Together they walked out of the classroom, out of the school and Sherlock flagged down a cab and got in to get them to Bakerstreet. Neither of them said a word.

~

Sherlock walked into the dressing room and shrugged of his dressing gown to put on John's jumper. It kind of smelled like him. Stupid, of course. He took it out of John's wardrobe, it was freshly washed. It couldn't smell like him. He put on his trousers while he heard Esmeralda and John talk.  
Sherlock didn't close the door behind him, so he could overhear their conversation.

_"...private. I put to much of myself in them. I never showed them to anyone. I'm sorry."_  
_"No, no. Don't be. I understand. It's private. Your emotions are in those shades. It's like a diary. You don't show people your diary either."_  
A pause. A diary? Did he see it like that? And he was lying again. He showed some of his work to Sherlock. Did John gave him a look inside his diary?  
_"But I'm thankful that you took this course. It makes me happy to see that there are more people around with beautiful talents that use them. Even if they don't show it to the world. And you've let me see some of it. This is now the second drawing you're making here. And I think it's very loaded. You can almost feel the emotions coming off from the paper. Is that something you can do with other people too? Or is it just because it's him?"_  
_"I think..."_

He could hear John exhale. As if he was hesitating what to say next.

  
_"I managed to do this in the past. But only with people I felt a special connection too, but not on this level. People who got close to me, hit me in some way, I guess. But I never managed to get it so much like this before."_  
_"I think that's because you love him."_  
_"I've loved others before."_  
_"Yes. But probably not so intense as him."_

Sherlock's mouth got dry, and his hands shook. His whole body was trembling in fact. He sat himself down in the desk chair, trying too breath. The rest of the conversation didn't reach his mind. John didn't deny it. He didn't say it out loud, but he didn't deny it.  
_"I've loved others before."_  
Did he just say that he loved him? John? No. This wasn't happening. This wasn't real. It was all an act. A cover they had made so they could investigate this case. This was not real.  
It was John's voice, but it was the fake John's opinion of Gerald. This wasn't meant for him.  
Not good.  
Definitely not good.  
They had to stop this investigation. It was too much. Sherlock felt as if his heart would explode out of his chest, and there was a huge headache coming up behind his eyes. He had trouble keeping the act and real life apart. That had never happened to him before.  
They had too call it off.  
Didn't they?  
Sherlock put on his socks and shoes and tried to act normal when he entered the classroom. John was just putting his last gear away.  
"Ready?"  
"Yes."

~

It was the third time he cried in all of his adult life. And it was the third time he cried because of John Watson.  
The first time it happened he was standing on the roof of Saint Bart's. He had his phone in his hand and he could see the man standing on the street below him.  
The only man who had ever seen so much of him, the only man who had made him feel so much. And now he had to deceive him too keep him alive. He had to hurt him. And it had made his heart bleed.

The second time was during his absence. He was convinced he was going to die. He was severely dehydrated, bleeding from a nasty head wound and almost starved to death. And although it was about eighty degrees in the shade where he was hiding, his skin felt ice cold. He was going to die, and the only thing he could think of, was that he would never see him again. He had missed him so much, and now that he was almost finished, almost ready to go back to London again, he would never go home to him. It was all he wanted, it was what had driven him, kept him going and kept him sane. To just go home and see him again. It was selfish to think like this, to see John as something he had earned, and it was stupid to cry over it, definitely because he already was dehydrated.  
Idiot.  
But it didn't matter. Without John, nothing mattered. When he woke up the next day in a hospital, he almost couldn't believe it. Someone had found him and had felt empathy for him, and had made sure he was treated. He was given another chance.

And now was the third time.  
The cab ride home had been a challenge. John was staring out of the window, ignoring Sherlock completely, while Sherlock had the feeling he was going insane. He got what he wanted. He got the man back in his life, he enjoyed having him around, to talk to him, laugh with him. But it still wasn't enough. His body and mind wanted more, his heart wanted more. When he had heard John say those words, he would have given everything just to make them true. Just to know that it was real. He would give his life for it, happily, even. He would die as a complete man.

But it wasn't real. And it hurt. It hurt to know that this was all he was going to get, and it wasn't enough. It was selfish and he knew it. He was a selfish man after all. Life had been easier without John in it, before he met him. Empty, yes. But easier. He never knew what he was missing, that he was missing something. Until is was there, within his reach, knowing that if he reached out for it, it would vanish for ever.  
When the cab stopped in front of 221b, Sherlock had stepped out of the cab, letting John handle the payment, and he had let himself inside. He took the stairs two at a time, and when he entered the apartment he went straight into his bedroom, slamming the door so hard that John would hear it and wasn't going to follow him. He had shrugged of the stupid jacket and had thrown himself onto his bed. He cried silently. Tears running down his face, his eyes swollen and his cheeks burning. He felt as if he was a small boy again. Just like in bygone days, before he was capable to control his transport and emotions. Just like before he had created his shield and to learned to detach himself from his feelings. He had managed to take a distance from the pain. It just wasn't worth it, feeling alone and misunderstood by everybody around him. Hiding away in his room and crying his eyes out, because the other kids thought he was a freak and even the adults including his parents had their opinion ready for him. They all thought he was strange, broken, needed to be fixed. So he made his shield, cutting him off from all the idiots roaming this world, making it capable to live his life, making sure he would never feel the pain or anything else anymore. Alone was what he had, what had protected him. I had worked for years.

But now his so carefully crafted shield was broken. He couldn't hide himself behind it anymore. It had started to crack from the moment he met him. But somehow he had always managed to keep it complete. Maybe it had been foolish of him to think that he could come back and carry on as before his absence, to go back to the sociopath he had been, shutting everything out again, to not let the emotions wash over him and drown him. To take distance from everything and everyone except John.  
John.  
The only one that mattered. The only one that was capable to make him feel whole and destroy him at the same time.  
He had to repair his broken shield. He had to try and glue the pieces back together, become the man he had been all those years before his fall, before he met John. Even if it meant that he never could be himself to the fullest.  
If that's what it took to be in his beloved London, with the love of his life next to him, he just had to endure that.  
It was what it was.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you want to? Keep that distance?" Sherlock asked him, giving him his full attention.  
> "Yes, no. I don't know. I'm not sure if I can handle that. You understand what I mean?"  
> "To be honest. No, John. I don't understand. But... I want to. Can you explain it to me?"  
> "I can try."  
> "Please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally they start talking to each other! Well, sort of...  
> Thanks you all for reading and for the kind words!!! You all make the writing worthwhile!  
> Enjoy this chapter!

Something had changed.

John just couldn't put his finger on it, but the easy flow that had been part of their relationship for the past few weeks had shifted somehow. It was like it had been before, when Sherlock had just returned from the dead. He had shut himself off again. He kept his distance, seemed uninterested in the things John (or anybody) said, his mind quicker than ever and his tongue even sharper. John had told him about the incident with the coffee, to explain himself why he was wearing David's sweater Tuesday night. (He did leave out the part of the man watching his torso and seeing the man getting aroused.)  
But while he told him, Sherlock just buried his face in the files of the case. It felt if he was avoiding him. John feared that Sherlock somehow had managed to find out what John really felt for him, and that that was the reason for his behaviour. When they got home Tuesday night, Sherlock was in a mood. They ignored each other in the cab, and when they got home, Sherlock slammed the door of his bedroom so hard, John feared that he had slammed it out of it's frame. He didn't see him for the rest of the evening.  
The next day, Sherlock didn't talk to him, ignoring him once again, and went to bed early that night, something he almost never did, and especially not when he was on a case, and definitely not two nights in a row. Something was wrong.  
Esmeralda phoned them early Thursday afternoon, to tell them that the art class of that evening was cancelled. The heater had broken down again, and it was way to cold to work in the school at the moment. And they were going to fix it first thing on Friday. That meant they had the whole evening for themselves.

Great.

John had been looking forward to it. Not the class itself including interaction with the other students, or the teacher. Not even so they could work further on the case. No. He felt the need to draw. To direct his emotions somewhere. Especially when he was struggling like this. And paper was a good thing to use. It was weird how fast it had become something essential for him again. The years of avoiding pencils and paper seemed forgotten.  
John had ended the phone call with Esmeralda and assuring her he would inform Gerald. Then he had made tea for Sherlock and himself, putting a cup next to Sherlock's elbow, (replacing the full cold mug that was standing there) and then he sat down in his chair with his novel, which he wasn't reading. The fire was burning and the rain was ticking against the window. It was comfortable inside, If you could ignore the dark cloud hanging above Sherlock's head. His mind wandered off again. Thinking about how to fill his night now he wasn't going to draw. Maybe he should give Greg a call, seeing if the man had any time for a pint in the pub tonight. "You can draw something at home, you know." Sherlock said, breaking the silence.  
It was the first thing he had said to him since leaving the art school Tuesday evening, if you didn't count in the 'Hmmm's'. And of course he was being the bloody mind reader again.  
John sighed. Maybe he was right.

"I could pose if you want, so you can work further on your piece."  
John felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. One of the butterflies in his stomach panicked. No way he was going to sit and watch the detective undressed, only covered with a sheet and his gorgeous arse showing, sitting on the sofa, or worse, in the bedroom. That was way to intimate. Only the thought of that picture already was turning him on. Definitely not going to happen.  
"No. No, it's fine. You're busy anyway. And I'll find something else to draw."  
"Hmmm."  
John took another sip of his tea, thinking about it.  
"It would be weird to draw in here."  
He said softly after a few minutes. Sherlock raised his head and looked questioning at him.  
"How do you mean? You can sit at the desk?"  
John gave him a half smile.  
"That's not what I meant, Sherlock. It's just... Well, you know I stopped drawing, and I never felt comfortable enough to start again. And this place is, well, it's home. With all those people around me when I draw in that classroom, it feels if I can keep a distance, somehow. I'm not sure if I can do that here."  
"Do you want to? Keep that distance?" Sherlock asked him, giving him his full attention.  
"Yes, no. I don't know. I'm not sure if I can handle that. You understand what I mean?"  
"To be honest. No, John. I don't understand. But... I want to. Can you explain it to me?"  
"I can try."  
"Please."

So much for rebuilding his shield, then. He could see the look on John's face and he just was unable to keep his air of annoyance and disinterest, as if he was bigger than the emotions inside of his transport. He had tried, for at least one and a half day. But it was so hard. How could he distance himself from his feelings when every time he saw John his heart pounded harder against his ribs? And how could John surprise him with this? It was another piece of the puzzle that was John Watson, And he just couldn't help himself.  
He put down the papers in his lap and reached for the tea John made him, sipping it, knowing that John would appreciate that he didn't make this cup for nothing. Sherlock settled himself comfortable in his chair, his legs tugged underneath him, and just listened to the mysterious man in front of him.  
"Well, it's a long story, but if you're up to it..."  
Yes. He definitely was. He wanted to understand John. To understand how his feelings worked. But instead of explaining that to John, and reveal to much of his eagerness, Sherlock just nodded.  
John started talking. He began hesitatingly, sighed a lot, in search for the right words and Sherlock could see it took a lot of effort to do this, but he did. And only because he asked him.

John told him that he had drawn even before he could walk properly. He loved it. His parents encouraged it. But when he got older, his drawings became more personal. He started to draw things that he didn't want to share. It became something private, a way to express himself towards himself, a way to handle the world around him. He kept drawing, but he didn't share it with anyone anymore. It had become his life journal. Some people around him knew about it, but most didn't. He went through High school, carrying his sketchbook around with him, played rugby, studied hard and was a popular boy. He made his parents proud and his sister jealous. Then he went to medical school, carrying his sketchbook around with him, putting his emotions on paper. He studied hard again, was still popular, played several sports. And he kept drawing for himself, never showed his work to anyone. (All did Mike Stamford see some of it, being his roommate, when he left some unfinished work on his desk.) There were girlfriends that wanted to see it, or even asked to be drawn by him. But he had refused every time. He never felt comfortable enough to share it with anyone.  
In the army it had been even more difficult to keep it for himself. They were packed up together at the other end of the world, there wasn't much room for privacy. Of course some of the boys saw him work, they peeked over his shoulder and asked questions about it. But John always kept them at bay. Telling them to mind their own business and bugger off. As a captain he was out ranking them, and that helped, of course. Although he always managed to be one of the boys. Some of the people he had drawn had seen their own portrait, but definitely not everybody.

"It all happened in such a short period of time. There was a man in the village, where we used to go for our shopping and just to hang out and interact with the villagers. You know, playing football, rugby, that sort of thing. We helped them if we could. There was a man that had a market stall and sold herbs and spices. I used to go to him and trade food for his spices. His name was Sadeq. His grandson Ahmed was helping him, and he spoke a little bit English. One day, the old man was working on the roof of his house, and cut himself pretty badly in his hand. Ahmed knew I was a doctor in the camp, so he came looking for me there. Of course I went with him to help his grandfather. I stitched him up and gave him medications. Antibiotics, painkillers, things like that. After that, we spend a lot of time together. He reminded me so much of my own father. We couldn't communicate, but with a bit of creativity we managed to understand each other when Ahmed wasn't there. It was as if Sadeq could see beyond the soldiers outfit. We connected, and we both felt it. I went by his house at least once a week, but if I had the opportunity twice or more, helping him and his family. He lost his wife years before, and he took care of his sick daughter. Her husband was taken by the Taliban, and they didn't know what had become of him. His daughter had a stroke the year before, making her invalid. Sadeq lived with her and her son in their little house. I helped out where I could. Not only with medical treatments, but also with food and I helped out fixing the house. One day, after almost four months of me helping them, he showed me his drawings, and he had asked his grandson to act as a interpreter. He then asked me if he could draw me. I said yes. He made a beautiful piece of art of me, if you can imagine that. It was breath taking. So, a few days later, I decided to return the favour. I drew him. A portrait. When he saw it, he cried. He took the sketchbook out of my hands and looked at all the pictures I made there. He was so happy to find someone with the same interests. I gave him more than half of my pencils, and he was so grateful for it. His grandson translated for us again. He told me that I was a good man. That he had known it from the start, but he now had seen my soul when he looked at my sketchbook. He told me that I had a beautiful soul, and that I was a gift of Allah. He called me the golden angel.

A few days later the village was attacked. Bombed. Sadeq died. His body was taken to our hospital, and I sat with him all night, drawing him, as a last goodbye. I cried. It felt as if I lost my own father. I didn't know you at that time, of course, but you always say coincidence doesn't happen. That the universe is never that lazy. The universe must have really hated me at that moment, because the next day exactly that happened. I was in the middle of a surgery, trying to fix one of my boys, when a nurse entered the room. He told me that my parents had died that morning. Car accident.

I somehow managed to finish the surgery before I got outside. I remember it was a hot day. I went for a walk into the dessert, smoking almost a pack of cigarettes, trying to get my emotions under control, knowing I had to go home as soon as possible. I had to make phone calls and make sure that everything was taken care off. I needed to contact Harry, let her know she wasn't on her own with this. I felt so empty, so betrayed in a way. In one day the world took so many of me. The man who looked into my soul and my beloved parents.  
I walked for over an hour when the air horn sounded. Another attack. I ran back to camp, but I was to far away. I ran as fast as I could and I took a short cut through the village. There were bombs falling and a lot of shots fired. I saw citizens running for their lives, falling down when the bullets hit them. People were screaming and crying, and I saw Ahmed running along with the other villagers. But while he was running for his life, he fell down, shot in the chest. I rushed towards him and took him in my arms. He was only ten years old. And I knew I couldn't do anything for him. He kept saying thank you. He called me the golden angel, just like his grandfather had. I held him, comforted him, cradled him against my chest until he died. The moment he breathed his last breath, I felt a sharp pain in my chest. I was shot. Within a minute I passed out.

I woke up in a military hospital miles away three days later. The whole village had been destroyed, as was most of our camp and our hospital. I managed to get in touch with my sister a day after that. She was drunk, called me names and told me that it was unforgivable that I managed to miss my parents funeral, for what reason whatsoever. She said she hated me, that she never wanted to see me again, and angrily she hang up the phone.  
On the same day I was told that I had to go home. They gave me a honourable discharge. And I was told that I probably could never operate again because the bullet that went through my shoulder had caused nerve damage and it gave me a tremble in my hand.  
I lost everything in one week. My parents, my sister, my surrogate family in Afghanistan, my army job, my future as a surgeon. Everything. When they send me back to England three weeks later, they gave me my possessions that they had found in what was left of the camp. All the letters from my parents had been destroyed, as were all my photo's, clothes, and almost everything else. Except for my sketchbook. It looked as if it hadn't been in a war zone, and I almost left it there. What was the point? It was filled with emotions, pain. Eventually I did took it home with me, don't even know why. But I did. I never picked up a pencil after that."

Sherlock was quiet. He had listened intense to John's story. It was sad, really. He could easily picture John how he had been before they've met. John always had been a popular bloke, the one with that big grin on his face, his blue eyes sparkling. People surrounding him, wanting to be his friend. A happy, uncomplicated man with the world at his feet. Loved by many, and in return cared for all of them. Nothing like the arrogant sods who were popular at his schools when he was studying.  
But John's heart had turned out too big for him to handle. And it almost destroyed him. He had come back from the war empty. Nothing to return to, nothing to look forward to, nothing to keep his big heart satisfied. John was diagnosed PTSD, was depressed, had a psychosomatic limp, a tremor in his dominant hand, and was looking for a way out. Sherlock suspected that he had considered taking his own life, and if his old roommate hadn't bumped into him in the park, he might even had done it. Thank god for Mike Stamford.  
It was strange, really. That they were so different but also very alike.  
Sherlock never was one of the popular blokes, quite the opposite. Hiding away in the library, the laboratory or his dorm room, shutting everybody out and minding his own business. Where John's heart had been too big, Sherlock's mind had been. Unable to shut it down, caressing it, but hating it at the same time. Just as John he was self destructive. John had been unable to turn his heart off, too care less for the people around him, and it almost killed him. Sherlock had tried to shut his mind down, finding relief with his drug use (or abuse, if you believed his brother) but it nearly took his life on several occasions. And he felt like it didn't matter at that time. If that was what it took to shut it off, then he had to take it. But just like John's mind had overruled his heart on occasion, telling himself that he could go on, that there must be something to live for after all, the same thing had happened to him. The heart had told his mind to try and get clean, to use his abilities for the good, and so he tried several times.  
And then there was John. Walking into his life. With a heart that equalled his mind. They were both halves of one whole. And together they managed to balance each other.  
Yin and Yang.  
He shook up out of his murmurings when John put down a cup of tea next to him. Sherlock blinked his eyes. How long had he been gone?  
While John was the one that sort of poured his heart out, told Sherlock his deepest secrets, he still felt the need to comfort Sherlock. It should have been the other way around, shouldn't it?  
But that big heart never stopped caring.  
When he looked at John he saw that the man was wearing his jacket.  
"I'm just going our for a bit, take a walk, heading towards the shop. Need anything?"  
Sherlock shook his head and John went out into the rain. Sherlock sighed again. When he reached for the tea on the table next to him, he saw that John had lied out all his sketchbooks next to it for Sherlock to see.  
A small smile turned on his lips, and instead of the tea, he took one of the sketchbooks onto his lap and started to read John's diary, to explore all those shades of happiness and the shades of pain John had managed to put down on paper.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That's what happens when you nick my jumpers."  
> "I should have done that sooner."  
> John's smile got wider and he shook his head. At least three of butterflies in his stomach went completely bonkers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg omg omg!  
> I really enjoyed writhing this one! 
> 
> And over 100 kudos!! Wow! Thank you all for reading and your kind words!!!

The easy flow had returned. John didn't draw that evening. Instead, he and Sherlock ate something and started looking into the case again. On Friday they did the same. They learned their suspects daily routine. Both men worked full time, Marc as an office manager, David as an interior designer. They found out where both men lived and what their other hobbies were. Marc had an atelier in his backyard. So he was very serious about his work. But they still couldn't rule one of the men out.

That evening, Sherlock's phone rang. John looked up from his novel (he was staring at the same page for over six minutes now) when Sherlock took the call.  
"Hello? Ow hello, Marc... Yes... And you? Great. Okay... No. I'm flattered, but I'm sorry. But that's something I don't do. And besides, it wouldn't be fair to the other students, would it?... Sure, no problem... Yes... I'll see you Tuesday. Good evening, Marc."  
When Sherlock ended the call, John looked at him with his eyebrows lifted up almost into his hair.  
"That was Marc."  
"Yeah. I figured."  
Sherlock shrugged and looked back to the papers in front of him.  
"Well, what did he want?"  
"Oh. He asked me to come to his house tomorrow and pose for him in his atelier. I declined, obviously."  
"He did what?!"  
"Don't make me repeat myself. You heard me."  
"Christ. He was hitting on you, wasn't he?" John muttered.  
"So? David was hitting on you. You don't hear me moaning about it."  
John chuffed out a sort laugh.  
"Jesus. And I thought you weren't even listening."  
"Of course I did, John. I just chose not to react on it. Now. I have made a plan for tomorrow."  
"Plan?"  
"Yes."  
Sherlock turned the paper and began reading the rest of the file.  
"Can you please enlighten me?"  
"What?" Sherlock looked up, annoyed.   
"Your plan, Sherlock. What is your plan for tomorrow."  
"Oh. Stake out. I'll get you a rental car and you can watch Marc. I'll shadow David."  
"Okay."

~

And so they both spend their whole Saturday following both suspects around through London, keeping each other updated through texts and phone calls. John followed Marc Jenkins. The man went for groceries in the morning, followed with a visit to his mother in the retirement home. But after that the man went back to his house, settling himself in his atelier in his backyard, painting the rest of the day. John was on a stake out in the rental car Sherlock had arranged for him, and even with the binoculars he could barely see the man from his parking spot at the end of the street. After his fourth cup of coffee he decided to call it a day, and he called Sherlock on his mobile.

"I'm done. This man is so enormously dull. If I don't get some action fast, I'm falling asleep behind the wheel here."  
He heard the deep baritone voice at the other end of the line chuckle. John couldn't help but smile at the sound, secretly wishing he heard it more often.  
"Well, in that case, maybe you can help me with David. He's quite a busy man. I just overheard him say that he is going out tonight. Care to join me?"  
"You? Going out? I wouldn't miss it for the world. Figure out where he is going, so we can go there ourselves tonight."  
"As if I don't know already."  
“Show-off. Just let's head home and get ready for tonight. I know you; you'll need at least an hour to get yourself ready."  
John could almost hear the eye roll Sherlock was giving him.

John made the decision to get some take away after he brought back the rental and before he went home, and by the state of Sherlock's skin tone it was a good thing that he did.  
He sat his roommate down and almost forced him to eat some dinner.

"But John! I'm on a case! Digesting slows me down. And I need to think clear."  
"Bollocks. You need to eat, Sherlock. I'm not taking any changes with you. If you don't eat, you're on your own tonight. You'll go down after one pint. I'll just stay in and read a good book or something."

Sherlock gave him a deadly glare, but started to eat anyway. After he finished his whole plate, he went into the shower and stayed there for over thirty minutes, using almost all the hot water at once. When it was John's turn to go into the shower, he had only five minutes of hot water left, ending his shower with a flush of cold water falling down on him. John cursed and turned the shower off before he was shivering of the cold and stood for the mirror to shave himself. When he got out of the bathroom he could see into Sherlock's room. The man was almost dressed. He was wearing a perfectly tailored pants and suit jacket, with an almost illegal tight shirt underneath.

Jesus.

John felt his cheeks flush again, and there was a certain heat going down a certain body part that he definitely was going to hide from Sherlock, no matter what.  
John rushed upstairs towards his bedroom and thought about the most disgusting things that came to mind. After his starting erection decided that it wasn't going to challenge the things John was thinking about right now, he set himself to work, getting himself dressed for a proper night out.

When John came back downstairs, Sherlock looked up at him. John was wearing jeans that left nothing to the imagination. It clenched around his arse like a second skin and made his thighs look even more hard and trained. When Sherlock saw the shirt John was wearing he couldn't help but smirk at him. The smooth fabric of Sherlock's dark blue shirt was tight around John's chest. As a doctor and former military man he kept himself fit. He ran at least three times a week and he got to the gym near his doctor’s office regularly. Sherlock knew this, obviously, but he had no idea of how fit his roommate actually was. Normally John wore his horrible, dull, comfortable jumpers, and when he had a special occasion, he would wear a loose shirt or vest. But he definitely never wore something like this. He wasn't the man to show off. John was muscular, trained. John's chest was brawny and wider than his own, as were John's upper arms. He had the sleeves of the shirt rolled up to just above his elbows, and the shirt was tugged into his jeans.  
The man looked like a walking sin.  
John smirked back at him.  
"That's what happens when you nick my jumpers."  
"I should have done that sooner."  
John's smile got wider and he shook his head. At least three of butterflies in his stomach went completely bonkers.  
"It's quite comfortable, actually, even though it's a bit too posh for me. Where are we going?"  
"Govent Garden. He is going to a pub at Martin's Lane."  
"Right. Shall we, then?"  
John turned around towards the door and took his coat from the rack. Sherlock could only follow him. He tried not to stare at the man in front of him. Which was obviously impossible at the moment. He just hoped that John wouldn't turn around before Sherlock had managed to wrap himself in his Belstaff so he could hide certain reactions that his body produced at the sight of this 'show-off' John.

The pub was crowded already. The men went towards the bar and John ordered them both a pint, much to Sherlock's aversion. They went to stand at the left end of the bar getting a good view at the whole pub. Sherlock was scanning the room, while John looked at the people going in and out. They talked a bit about nothing in particular, but half an hour and two pints later, Sherlock decided to go out for a smoke.

John rolled his eyes.

"Smoking? Really Sherlock? You're not undercover at the moment. So you don't have any excuse to do so."  
"We're on a night out. That's all the excuse I'll need. And were not undercover yet. As soon as David comes in, I'm Gerald again." Sherlock replied, and he left John standing at the end of the bar on his own.

While John was looking at his phone and waited for Sherlock to come back, a familiar voice called his name.  
"John? Hey! John!"  
David came up to him and gave him a firm slap on the shoulder.  
"Hey buddy! Good to see you here! Are you alone? Wait, I'll get us something to drink. You want a pint?"  
"Ta, David. Sounds good to me."  
As soon as the man turned around to get the bartenders attention, John grabbed his phone and started typing.

_'David is in. Thinks I'm alone. Don't show yourself yet. I'll send you a text when you can come in and rescue me. JW'_

Send.

1 new message:

_'Understood. SH'_

John grinned at his phone and wondered himself about the trust the genius had in him, when David put down a pint in front of him.

"Cheers." He said and raised his glass toward John's.  
"Cheers." He replied and took a sip.  
"So. Come here often?"  
David asked him, and started to grin when he realised how much that sounded like a bad opening sentence.  
"Ow bugger. I mean, never saw you here before."  
John laughed along with the man. He didn't really know David. They had chatted a bit before, he did have a little row with him when he felt jealous about Sherlock, he had borrowed the mans sweatshirt, seen him getting aroused but the man spend the breaks outside to smoke, so he was mostly targeted by Sherlock.  
"Yes. Normally I'm going to another place, but some friends of mine wanted to meet here. Unfortunately, they called it off while I was already on my way. So I thought it would be nice to stay for a pint or two before Gerald arrives."  
"He's coming too? Pity."

John's mind was racing. He needed to know what the man's motives were, to find out if he had an alibi, or even more extreme, get a confession. Best to go along with it, then.  
"You think so?" He replied, his voice just a bit lower than usual, raising one of his eyebrows slightly. He could see the interest in David's eyes.  
"Yes, I do." He said, his voice at least as low as John's.  
They talked about their art class, and about Gerald's talent to sit completely still for over an hour. They talked about art models in general, and about the ones that went missing while modeling for their class, and John even ordered them another round.  
Suddenly, David reached out with his hand over the bar to lay it on top of John's. His fingers stroking the top of his hand.  
"You're an extraordinary man, John. Full of surprises. I've been watching you, you know. You're a skilled artist, so focused at your work. But there is something about you. You're more than you want to show to the outside world. You have a certain look in your eyes, dangerous. You look bloody hot with that body of yours, hiding away in those jumpers all the time. No, you caught my eye at first sight, and I could barely contain myself in the bathroom last Tuesday. But seeing you like this, dressed to kill, I know for sure that I want you, all of you, every inch of you." David leaned in closer and lifted John's hand from the bar, bringing to to his mouth. David dropped his voice even lower.  
"Hard and deep." He growled. Letting his tongue drag a straight line across John hand.  
John tried to pull his hand back and to take a step back.  
"Look. I'm... I'm sorry, David, but..."  
"There you are. I've been looking for you." Sherlock interrupted, his voice dark. David froze on the spot and John was relieved that Sherlock had chosen this moment to be too impatient to wait any longer for a text from him.  
"Gerald! I'm glad you..." John started, but when their eyes locked, John's words got stuck in his throat. This wasn't Gerald, this was definitely Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were extremely pale, and they looked furious. There was a fire burning in them that would burn the toughest man in the room down to a pile of ash with one look. Sherlock took two big steps forward and forged David with his body to let go of John's hand. John reacted confused and turned his body towards Sherlock's, forgotten the fact that he was supposed to act like he was somebody else, and Sherlock took the opportunity to wrap his arms around John and pulling him aggressively against him, a low growl coming from his throat. John felt Sherlock's hands gripping his arse possessively and the tall man tilted his face down, looking John in the eyes.  
_Mine!_  
The butterflies seemed to have escaped his stomach, whirling around in his whole body now.  
John didn't think anymore, he just reacted on that possessive heated gaze in Sherlock's eyes and actions. He put his right hand on Sherlock's arse, pulling that body even closer against his own, and his left hand went up to the back of Sherlock's head, his fingers gripping in his soft, dark curls, pulling him further down.

John kissed him.

Sherlock's head spun. His mind was having a short circuit and it went blissfully blank. He felt the soft but sturdy lips pressing against his own. It was not as he had expected. He had thought that if it would ever happen,(or rather, imagined it) it would be hard and rough. But John's touch was soft but pressing, his mouth opening a bit to get Sherlock's lower lip between his own, softly sucking it and releasing it again. Sherlock felt the tip of John's tongue brushing against his lips, and he invitingly opened his mouth. He felt John's tongue slowly licking his lower lip again before carefully exploring Sherlock's mouth. When their tongues met each other, they both let out a soft moan. Their tongues circled each other and played for a moment before Sherlock's mind was starting back up.

Not good.  
Definitely not good.

Slowly he drew himself back. Not wanting to let go ever again, but it had to be done.  
Sherlock took a step back, letting go of John, who was looking bewildered at him. Hastily he took another step back, panic clouding his mind.  
What had he done?  
"Sherlock?" John asked, his voice worried an a bit uncertain.  
But Sherlock's panic had taken over. He turned around and hurried himself out.  
"Sherlock! Wait!" John yelled after him. Sherlock pushed the people in his path towards the door aside, not slowing his pace.

"Sherlock? John, what's going on? Was that Sherlock Holmes? The detective?" David asked pressing.  
"Fuck off!" He told David and turned around again.  
"Sherlock!"  
But it was too late. Sherlock already pulled the door of the pub open and rushed outside. John tried to pass David to hurry himself after him, but David blocked his way.  
"You're John Watson, aren't you?" He asked angrily.  
"Get out of my way."  
John pushed the man aside, but David grabbed John's arm and pulled him back.  
"I knew there was something about you! Why are you here?! Why are you tailing me?!"  
John pulled his arm out of the man's grip.  
"I said, fuck off!"  
David tried to hit him. John ducked just in time, so the fist aimed for his head missed target.  
John's didn't.  
He hit the man hard in the middle of his face, and while David went down, John ran towards the door, pushing himself through the crowded space, reaching for his jacket on the coat rack next to the door without slowing down. Next to his jacket he saw the Belstaff.

"Shit."

He pulled that one with him too and slammed the door open. Suddenly he was standing still on the pavement in front of the pub. Where had he gone?  
John reached for his phone in his pocket to call him, realising that Sherlock's phone was still in the pocket of his coat, currently hanging across John's arm.

"Shit shit shit!"

~

Sherlock slammed the door of the pub behind him and turned right. With big steps he strode through the street, taking the first to the right, making sure he wasn't in sight anymore.  
He kept walking. Ignoring the cold now he left without his coat.  
What was he thinking?!  
Well, to be honest, he wasn't thinking at all. Seeing David hit on John had made him furious. There was just one thing on his mind at that moment.

_'Mine!'_

How could he be so stupid. John wasn't an idiot. At least not so much as everybody else. He would know what had happened. He would figure out it wasn't a game for him anymore. John would find out about his feelings for him and he would leave. John would leave to go somewhere safe, meet a boring woman, have a boring wedding, take a boring mortgage and buy a boring house in a boring street, work at some boring doctors office and maybe even get some boring kids and live a dull domestic ordinary boring life together. Like a happy little family.  
Dull. Stupid. Boring.  
He wished he had never come back from his grave. Or even better, he wished he had never met the man. He should have overdosed himself when he had the chance. Leaving this world without ever feeling this sort of pain.  
Hell. He should have listened to his brother.  
"Caring is not an advantage, brother mine."  
For once, Mycroft had been right.  
What did he have to do now? Go back to Bakerstreet? He still had his emergency cocaine hidden there. Maybe it was enough to end all of this. But he couldn't. Not only were his keys inside his coat, the chance of John being there was considerable.  
"Mister Holmes?"  
Sherlock turned around towards the familiar sounding voice, and before Sherlock could react, Marc Jenkins stabbed something in his neck and the whole world went dark.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was trying to get his weight on his toes, so his hands would get some more blood. He already couldn't feel his fingers. He really needed his fingers. They were important.  
> When he tightened his muscles he whimpered, causing a laugh from the man behind him.  
> "Hold still. I can't work when you are moving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your feedback and kudos! I just love them!!   
> This chapter is a bit darker then the previous ones. so a little warning here!

"Sherlock!"  
John took the stairs to 221b twice at the time and opened the door of their apartment. It was dark inside.  
"Sherlock?" John tried again, against better knowledge.  
Fucking hell! Where was he?  
John pulled out his phone and scrolled his contact list. He found the right name and dialed.  
"Dr. Watson. How can I be at your service tonight?  
"Mycroft, I need your help. Have you seen Sherlock?"  
"Sherlock? No, I can't say I have. Why? Is there something wrong?"  
"Let's call it a danger night. He went off without his phone or keys, and I have no idea where he went off to. Can't you track him down or something?"  
"If he doesn't have his phone with him, it is going to be hard, I'm afraid. But I'll see what I can do."  
"Last time I saw him we were at Salisbury on Martin's lane."  
"A pub?"  
"Just hurry up, Mycroft. Call me as soon as you know something."  
He hang the phone and called Greg.  
"John! Fancy the pub tonight?"  
"No, Greg. Have you seen Sherlock?"  
"No I haven't. Not since you two started the case with the missing models. How's that going, by the way?"  
"Good, good. Listen. If you see Sherlock or if he contacts you, please tell him to contact me, will you?"  
"Sure, no problem mate. Is something wrong?"  
"He took off without his coat, keys or phone."  
"Ah. Having one of his tantrums again?"  
"Yeah, something like that. Just, let me know if you hear from him, okay?"  
"I will. If you change your mind and you're up for a pint, you'll know where to find me, yeah?"  
"Ta, Greg."

~

His head pounded. His body felt stiff and cold. Slowly he tried to open his eye's.  
"You're quick."  
He heard Marc say.  
"My body is used to higher dosage." Sherlock replied hoarsely, opening his eyes and blinking against the black spots trying to take over his vision.  
He tried to move his arms, but they were tied together above his head. His ankles were also bound, and he was naked.  
Great.  
"It's good that you are awake, I'm going to prepare you, and that is so much more fun when you can enjoy it too." Marc said, stepping to the right side of the dimly lit room. He started to move something and Sherlock felt the bounds on his arms pull upward. He was hoisted up until his toes barely touched the ground.  
"you have such a marvellous build. Long, slender, muscled. No fat on your body. Sharp cheekbones, angled shoulders, round buttocks. It's almost a piece of art of it's own."  
The man came forward to Sherlock and caressed his back with his fingers. Sherlock tried to pull himself away from the feeling and kick the man with his feet, his whole body weight hanging on the rope.  
"Shhhh... easy there. Don't harm the goods. We don't want to make a mess, yet, do we?"  
The man walked away again. Sherlock couldn't see his movements, as he was hanging with his back towards him. Marc switched the lights on, blinding Sherlock for a few moments. When he could see something again, he tried to see where he was. The space was small. He could see a white wall in front of him, a window with black roller-blinds in front of it at his left, keeping the light in and withdrawing anything happening inside out of sight, with a closed and probably locked door next to it. He could smell paint. So this was probably the man's atelier in the back of his garden.  
"Is this because I said no to your offer yesterday?"  
"Partly. And because of your investigation in my previous models. How did you think you could keep yourself anonymous, mister Holmes? Did you really think people wouldn't figure it out?"  
"You're the first of the group who did."  
"That is correct. But then again, I had my reasons for looking over my shoulder."  
Sherlock could hear the man walking and ruffling around.  
"Now I am going to prepare you for our first painting. Please hold still. This could sting a bit."  
Sherlock had no idea what was coming, but as soon as the first strike hit him, he braced himself for more.  
"For our first piece, I like to add some colouring. Your skin is so pale, it almost gets boring to paint it."  
Another hit. Sherlock clenched his teeth.  
"The human skin is something special. When you get your angle right, you can create a whole new colour palette. Yellow Ochre, Phthalocyanine Blue, Dioxazine Purple, and so forth. It gives more dept in the painting."  
"That sounds boring."  
Another hard strike, full on the kidney this time. Sherlock let out a small huff, making Marc smile.  
"Please, mister Holmes, don't hold back for me. I can take it."  
Marc started to lash out, strike after strike hit him. On his back, his shoulders, his bum, his legs, everywhere. Sherlock growled at every hit, trying to keep his mind clear. There had to be a way out of this. The last strike was hard on his ribs, and he made a pitiful sound because of it.  
Marc chuckled and walked around to face Sherlock's front. Sherlock could see the man had some sort of wide belt in his hand that he used to slap him with.  
"Does this turn you on?"  
"Mister Holmes! What do you think of me? I'm an artist. And I an definitely not some queer. You should do your homework better. Now. Let's work on the front, shall we?"  
The leather belt hit his chest, arms and abdomen. Leaving behind no open wounds or cuts, just bruises. Sherlock felt his head spin from the pain, and he was now shamelessly moaning at every hit he got on his sore body, and when Marc hit him hard in the groin, he passed out.

  
When Sherlock recovered from his unconsciousness, he tried to lift his head. It felt heavy and swollen, and he noticed that was difficult to open his eyes. Marc must have hit him in the face when he was out. He tried to move, but his whole body felt sore. He growled.  
"Back again?" The soft voice asked him. Sherlock refused to answer. Instead he was trying to get his weight on his toes, so his hands would get some more blood. He already couldn't feel his fingers. He really needed his fingers. They were important.  
When he tightened his muscles he whimpered, causing a laugh from the man behind him.  
"Hold still. I can't work when you are moving."  
"Are you painting me?"  
"Of course. When I'm finished I'll turn you around and start on that side. After I've finished that too, we'll prepare you for the next round. Now, hold still."  
Sherlock didn't even want to move. Everything hurt. He couldn't open his eyes properly, but he could imagine what he looked like. He could feel the bruising's burning all over his body. He did always bruise easily. His body would be red and swollen here and there, the dark blue and purple would take time to show up, at least a few hours. He was really not looking forward to that. His body would have all different kind of shades. He moved again. His hands were getting more blood now the blood flow wasn't cut of anymore due to his own weight. They had started to tingle and now it felt as if they were on fire. He heard a stool behind him scrape over the floor. And Marc was standing in front of him again.  
"I told you to hold still for me. But apparently you didn't had enough."  
He started hitting him again. Hard, fast, and over and over on the same places. When Marc hit his testicles again, Sherlock cried out, wishing he would black out again. The man was ruthless. He whipped and slashed his body with the piece of leather, and when he hit him with it in the face, he finally passed out again.

~

It had been over fifty minutes now since he talked to Mycroft on the phone, and he really had a bad feeling about this. He needed to get out to go and try and find Sherlock. So he could explain to him that it was an 'in the heat of the moment' thing. That he really shouldn't worry about it.  
Even if it was a lie.  
When Sherlock had walked towards him in the pub, he had looked like himself, and not like Gerald. Not a bit, even. If he didn't know any better, he would have sworn it was Sherlock who reacted like that, not Gerald. He had looked really furious. What was that about?  
And God, those eyes.  
Was he afraid that John would start dating again? Was he afraid that John would have less time for him? Was it because it was a man that hit on him? Was Sherlock jealous? Was that why he grabbed John's arse possessively as he did? Why did he kiss him back? Christ. He had kissed him.  
Passionately.  
He, John _'I'm not gay'_ Three Continents Watson, kissed Sherlock _'I'm married to my work'_ High Functioning Sociopath Holmes.  
And it was as good as he thought it would be. Finally it happened, it was something he had fantasised about for years. John wanted to do it again. He wanted those lips on his own again. He wanted all of that man. What did he have to lose? But it was Sherlock. And he had seen the confusion in his eyes afterwards. Not just confusion,but something that looked like pain, or fear. Sherlock was probably now hiding in some drug den, shooting up, getting high to forget that this had ever happened. For God's sake! Why didn't Mycroft call him back?  
John stopped pacing around the room and made a decision. Two decision's, actually. Because of his relationship with the detective, he knew where the most obvious drug dens where situated. He was going to take matters into his own hand. He was going to find Sherlock and drag the man back home. And then, he was going to tell Sherlock how he felt about him, for better of for worse. He had never been a coward, and he was avoiding this for too long already. John went upstairs to get his gun, and when he returned downstairs he took his phone and texted Sherlock's.

'Call me as soon as you see this. We need to talk. JW'

Send.

Sherlock's phone vibrated on the coffee table, the screen lit up for a few seconds, and it went back dark again, a notification light flashing above the screen. If Sherlock got home before John did, he just hoped the man would listen to him for once in his life. John put on his coat, pushed his phone into his pocket and the gun between his waistband. He rushed out to get a cab that would take him to the nearest drug den at Govent Garden.

"Sherlock?" John asked in the last room of the house. He narrowed his eyes to see better in the dark, but he wasn't there. The others in the room ignored him or looked at him as if he was some kind of ghost. But one man looked up at him.  
"Yer look'n for the detective?"  
John looked at the man that had talked to him. Skinny, filthy and white as a sheet. He looked more like a ghost than John did.  
"Yes."  
"Hasn't been 'ere for ages. Thought he was dead."  
"He came back. Listen, can you ask around for me if anyone seen him?"  
"Nah. Don't feel like 't. Yer on yer own, man."  
"Thanks for nothing, then."  
John hurries himself downstairs again, and started jogging to the next drug den, a few blocks away.

The second house was empty. As was the third. But the forth one was crowded, and he almost got into a fight about his presence in the house.  
"I'm just looking for a friend, mate. Don't make a big deal out of it."  
The man in front of him pumped himself up. He was big, but in the state he was in, he was never going to win a fight against John, and he knew it.  
"Ain't your mate. There are no copper friends in 'ere, so get out!"  
"I'm not police for Christ sake! Let me through!"  
"Let 'em go, Bern. The man ain't no cop, look at 'im. Who yer looking for, sweetheart?"  
A small woman came standing next to the man named Bern, she was about thirty years old, and definitely a heroin addict.  
"Sherlock Holmes."  
"Ha! He's looking for 'Olmes! Good luck with that, he dead."  
The man said.  
"Shut the fuck up, Bern! Ye don't know what yer talkin' 'bout. Why you need 'm for, honey? Have a mystery to solve?"  
"No, he's my friend. And he's missing. I really need to find him."  
"Yer that doctor bloke then?" Bern asked.  
"He never shut up about ya, whenever he was 'ere."  
"Sorry?" John asked confused.  
"Yeah. Always 'fraid you'd find out he was using. Always sayin' he'd lose ya over it. That it would kill em. Complete 'nutter, that one."  
"What? How do you mean?"  
"You didn't know he was using, did ya?" The woman asked him, her voice caring.  
"I did. Well, I knew he used too."  
"Don't worry. Havn't seen 'em high in years. But he ain't here. You should go and talk to Nita. She knows 'im best."  
"And where can I find this Nita?"  
"Been to Blenheim Grove, behind Peckham Rye Station? She's there most of 'er time."  
"Thank you."  
John turned around to leave, but the woman spoke again.  
"Tell Nita Angie sent ya. Hope you find you're bloke."  
"Thanks, Angie. I hope so too."

John searched the street for an empty cab, got in, and sat with his phone in his hands staring at the screen for the whole thirty minute cab ride. He had been running around for hours. He looked at the time on his phone. It was almost half past two in the morning now. Sherlock had run out on him at eight forty five. Almost five hours ago.

He got out on Blenheim Grove, looking around for the drug den Angie had told him about. This wasn't the best place in London to wander on your own, and John was glad he had his gun on him. He saw some crackheads going into a building on his left, and he decided to follow them inside.  
This house was not as crowded as the previous one, but there were still a lot of people inside. People were laying on the ground, high as a kite, but when John saw a woman that was still capable of talking he approached her. She was about Sherlock's age, and was wearing a big, filthy coat (although not as filthy as the others he saw around here), her hair was cut short and looked brown.   
"I'm looking for Nita. Have you seen her?"  
The woman looked at him, her eyes strangely sharp.  
"That depends on who is asking for her."  
"I'm a friend."  
"Is that so? How can I be sure you're a friend of hers? You don't seem like the type she usually hangs with."  
"Please, can you just get her for me or tell me where she is?"  
"Why?"  
"I need to talk to her."  
"About?"  
"Sherlock Holmes."  
"Sherlock Holmes? Who's asking?"  
John hesitated. This woman looked smart, and she was definitely not high. Should he lie? No. Too much at stake.  
"John Watson."  
"Doctor John Watson?"  
"Yes."  
"Come with me." She said.  
John obeyed and walked after her through the house.  
"As a doctor, you probably haven't got any cigarettes on you?"  
"No, I haven't."  
"Too bad. Come, this room."  
She turned inside an empty room and closed the door behind them as good as it could.  
John looked around.  
"There's no one here."  
"I am. My name is Anahita, Nita on the streets. Why are you looking for Sherlock? What happened? How did you know to come to me? Did he tell you about me?"  
"I spoke to Angie, she told me to come looking for you. Look, I know it's strange, but have you seen him?"  
"Is he missing? What happened?"  
"We sort off got into a fight together. And he left. I'm afraid he's off to score something."  
"Small chance. He hasn't done any of that since his return, or even before that, you know."  
"How do you know that?"  
"Because I know him and he told me. We go back a long time. Did he never tell you?"  
"He never tells me anything." John muttered.  
The woman chuckled softly.  
"I bet he doesn't. I want to help you. Well, I want to help Sherlock. He did so much for me, it's the least I can do for him. But because you say he never tells you anything, I need to tell you a few things first."  
Even though John was in a hurry, he knew he needed her help to find him. He was curious about the woman's story and maybe she did have some information for him.  
Sherlock wasn't here, and she told him that it was a very small chance that he was shooting up somewhere in an abandoned alley. He sighed.  
"Okay. Fire away, then."

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm an idiot." He said under his breath, trying to breath properly again.  
> "Yeah, he told me that."  
> John huffed out a short laugh.  
> "Of course he did."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah! Thank you all for the great feedback and kudos! Love it!!

"About eight years ago, I was living in some crack house at the other end of London. I was using at that time, and I went onto the streets to sell my body for cash. Not something I am proud off, but it happened. It was my life back then. One night, I was walking the streets and a car stopped, asking what it would cost and I was about to step inside to go to some abandoned alley with that man, when a strange young man appeared behind me.  
"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Unless you want you're life to stop tonight." He said to me. And something in that deep voice withheld me from getting in that car. It saved my life. The man was arrested two days later for murdering three prostitutes.

The young man that had talked to me went back with me to the crack house, and offered me some of his stash. He didn't call himself Sherlock at that time, and he definitely didn't look like the posh boy he actually is. Although you could hear it in his speech, definitely upper class. From that time on we became pals, and we both lived in that house for a few weeks together. He talked about helping out the police whenever he was clean, and I told him about my dreams for the future.

One day he was gone. I saw him again several weeks later. Clean shaven, pretty clothes, and apparently off drugs. He asked me if I wanted to help him with a case. All I had to do was keep my eyes open. He offered me money for it, which I declined, because we were friends. But he left a couple of hundreds for me anyway. I helped him out that time. And the next, and the next, before he came back to us. Back shooting up, I mean. It had been almost a year since his last rehab. We bought together, used together, and when he overdosed himself I called an ambulance for him. I remember when he came back, he told me that if it ever happened again, that I had to call a certain number, and to look in his pockets for a note.

We went on like that for more then two years. Him using, overdosing, disappearing, coming back again, using, getting clean, being the posh detective, building his homeless network with me, he even encouraged me to get clean. I did. Then he started using again, came back to live with me and I took care of him, until he overdosed again. The last time that happened, I called his brother as I did before, but I also called his detective friend from the police. This wasn't the life for him. He was too smart for this. He got me clean and I wished the same for him. They came to pick him up and I thought I would never see him again.

But he came back after almost a year. He looked good. Happy, even. He took me out for coffee, just us old friends. We talked. I asked him how he was doing. What had happened to him to shine like he did. He didn't want to say it at first, but after I pushed him, he said that I earned to know the truth, that I deserved it. Thanks to me he got clean, got his life back on track, and he finally told me that he had met someone. That he had fallen in love. And that he was going to do everything in his power to keep this person in his life. That was about four years ago. He kept his promise, and I only saw him using a couple of times since then. But he never felled back into the destructive lifestyle he had lived for years. Because there was someone for him to live for now. He whined the last time he shot himself up. Telling me that he was so scared that you would find out and leave him. I told him that the only way to prevent that from happening, was to stop doing it then. And I know he did. A day before his so called suicide, he came to me, asking for help. He told me he was about to break the heart of the man he loved to save his life, and he needed the homeless network to help him out. So we did. He came to see me when he raised from the grave, to thank me again for my help, and to tell me he was back again, and that you had given him the black eye. Which you had all the right to do, if you asked me. He was here two weeks ago, asking if we wanted to look out for three men, but came back last week to tell us that he narrowed it down to two. I didn't speak with him anymore afterwards. But I can assure you, John, he's not shooting up. He would have come to me to do it, because he doesn't trust anyone else to look after him when he does, and I would have done everything in my power to prevent that from happening."

John's legs gave out on him, and he slid down the wall he had been leaning against until he sat on the ground. His butterflies were shocked, trashing against the walls of his stomach, and one seemed to have bitten himself into his heart, holding on for dear life.  
"Doctor Watson? Are you alright?" Nita asked him worried. She knelled down besides him, checking his temperature with the back of her hand. And she felt the man shaking.  
"John? Do I need to call a doctor? Do you need some fresh air? John? Please, talk to me."  
John shook his head.  
"I'm an idiot." He said under his breath, trying to breath properly again.  
"Yeah, he told me that."  
John huffed out a short laugh.  
"Of course he did."  
John looked at Nita, tears welling up in his eyes, he fought them back and scraped his throat.  
"He... he never told me. That bloody moron never said anything to me. O god. That stupid cock! Jesus. O, Jesus Christ."  
"John? What do you mean? He never mentioned it? He never said a word?"  
"It's Sherlock. Of course he never said anything! Not to me, or anybody else I know. Don't let anybody even think that the posh all knowing detective is human after all, that he cares."  
"Sherlock never told you? He really is an idiot..."  
John swiped a hand over his face and huffed out an unintelligible laugh. "Fucking hell. Think off all the time we wasted."  
Nita squeezed his upper arm.  
"You feel the same about him, then?" She whispered.  
"Only god knows why, but yes. Yes, I do. I need to find him. I thought he was angry with me, but now I think he panicked.  
"Panicked?"  
"Yes. We didn't really get into a fight. I... I kissed him, and he ran off. I really thought he was angry with me."  
"Christ. You're both idiots."  
John's phone went of. He grabbed it out of his pocket. Mycroft.  
"Did you find him?"  
"Hello John. No I haven't. I do have his last known location."  
"Where?"  
"The last CCTV image of him was at Charing Cross Road heading towards Bearstreet. We lost sight of him there."  
"Thank you, Mycroft. Call me if you find anything else."  
John ended the call before Mycroft could respond.  
"Any homeless network people working near Charing Cross Road?"  
Nita stretched out her hand to pull John on his feet.  
"Let's get a cab."

~

Sherlock woke up. He moaned. He was laying on the cold ground now. He felt his heartbeat burn in his fingers and groin. He felt his whole body burn, now he thought about it. This was just tedious. He tried to open his eyes. They must be swollen. It took too much effort, but he tried it anyway, getting one open a bit. The lights were still on, and he could hear the brushstrokes against canvas. Was the man working on his second work? Why was he laying on the ground? He had to stand up, it was to cold. His head hurt. Was he hit on his head? Sherlock tried to move his painful body, getting his head lifted up and tried to push himself onto his elbows.  
"You're a stubborn man, aren't you?"  
He heard Marc say.  
"I've been told so, yes." He answered, his voice cracking. He was on his elbows now, just get his legs underneath him and he could run off. He took a deep breath to steady himself. It hurt his ribs. Marc was in front of him now.  
"I told you to stay still." The man said. Sherlock tried to look up at him, but his vision was blurry.  
Instantly Marc's foot was on his chest. He kicked him hard down. Sherlock tried to breath. It was difficult and he was afraid he would suffocate. He felt the leather belt hitting him again. On his head, in his face, on his body. He tried to put his arms in front of his face, but they were kicked away. The man started kicking him in earnest now. Ribs, arms, hips and head. The world went black again.

He saw flashes behind his eyes. White, blue, pink, yellow. They were pretty. John was pretty too. Where was John? He wanted to show him the pretty colours behind his eyes. All these shades, it was beautiful. John liked shades. John was an artist. Maybe he could explain the different shades to him.  
Slowly, the mist in his head cleared away. John. O god, he needed to find him. He needed to get away from here. He tried to get up again.  
"Jesus Christ! You are unbelievable! Stay, fucking, still!" He heard the stool scrape over the floor again, and he braced himself. The man started hitting him and kicking him again. He really lost his temper now. It was just cruel. It hurt like hell. The man kicked him on the chest again, and then on his shoulder. He felt his left shoulder dislocate and he screamed with pain. It earned him an kick in his face, letting his already swollen lower lip spit, bleeding heavily.  
"God damned! Don't you bleed on me! Where not on that stage yet! You're ruining my work! You idiot!" The man stamped away, returning with a cloth which he pressed hard against his mouth, to stop the bleeding. When Sherlock tried to pull his face away to get more air, Marc set his knee onto his dislocated shoulder, making him growl. When the cloth was taken away from his lips, Sherlock inhaled as deep as he could. He needed air!  
"Let's get you still long enough so I can finish my piece."  
The man said. Who was that? Why was he here? His head hurt like hell, and his thoughts seemed to spin in his head. Sherlock tried to open his eyes again, but it didn't work. He knew he had to go, he had to try to escape, he needed to find John. Sherlock tried to move again, pain spiking through his body. But then the man (Marc. Marc Jenkins. Art student, mid to end fifties, suspect in the missing art models case. Well, more than a suspect now.) Stamped his foot hard down on the inside of Sherlock's left knee. Sherlock felt something pop and tear, and with a scream he passed out for the fourth time.

When he came back this time, he managed not to moan or move. His head felt clear, strangely clear, although his vision was probably still blurry. He couldn't even open his eyes anymore because of the swelling. Breathing was hard, laying still was hard. He thought he had never been in so much pain before. He tried to make a mental map of his injuries, to keep his brain busy and his mind clear.

Head: pressure in the head, temporary loss of consciousness, confusion, seeing stars, ringing in the ears, nausea; Concussion.

Left Shoulder: Swelling, Intense pain, Inability to move joint, tingling neck, spasm in muscles due to disruption, increasing pain; Dislocated shoulder.

Eyes: Unable to open, pressure, pain, swollen eyelids, skin tone probably black and blue; Severe bruising. And big chance of subconjunctival hemorrhages on eyeballs.

Chest: Pain while breathing in. Tenderness on chest, Muscle spasms of the rib cage; Heavily bruised ribs.

Chest: Difficulty breathing, rapid heartbeat, tight feeling in the chest, flared nostrils when breathing; Partial collapsed lung.

Scrotum: Severe pain, pain in the abdomen, swelling, fever; Testicular contusion, and possible rupture.

Left knee: Severe pain. Unable to move, swollen, cold leg from knee down, tingling sensation: Knee dislocation.

Right Ankle: Swelling, tenderness, pain, stiffness; Sprained ankle.

Lower back: Persistent pain lower back and on top of the buttocks area, swelling at the base of spine; Bruised tailbone.

Further he felt like his whole body was broken, as if his skin was to tight and it was trying to rupture itself. He was running a fever. His lips were swollen, his fingers were swollen, he had a big swollen bruise on the back of his head, his lower lip was torn, and if he had been able to open his eyes he could see the discolouration covering his body, going from red to blue and even black now. He didn't need to see it to feel it.  
He had to say that Marc did a proper job not spilling any blood. Except for the torn lip. He was a bit worried about the dislocated knee, that was an severe injury. Probably needed surgery to fix it again. He knew the partial collapsed lunge and the contused or ruptured testicle were worrisome too. Better not think about that.

How long had he been here? Hours? It felt like hours. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious. He tried to make a time scheme. The moment he had been taken into the car at Bearstreet. That had been around eight o'clock. The ride towards the man's house was less then ten minutes. He knew the address, of course. Bringing him in and get him undressed and bound would have taken at least another ten to fifteen minutes. He didn't know how long it had taken for him to wake up from the drugs that was injected in his neck. Let's say, another ten. So, thirty to forty minutes since the injection. Another thirty or forty minutes before he passed out the first time. No way of knowing how long he had been gone. Long enough for the man to torture his body further. So lets go with twenty minutes. second beating lasted for about twenty five minutes before he passed out. He had been out longer this time. Long enough for the man to finish his first painting, lower Sherlock down and untie him, torture him a bit more, and to lay him out into a new pose. So, probably thirty to thirty five minutes. The last one was a long one, about forty or forty five minutes before he passed out again. He had no idea how long he had been out. This wasn't good for his brain. He should try and keep conscious now.  
So, at least four hours, maybe even five. Or had it been longer? Did he pass out three times? Four? Five? His time scheme was messed up. The fever was messing with his mind. He couldn't think properly. He felt another muscle spasm on his chest and tried to ignore the pain. His breathing was shallow.

Not good.

He was going to die here. The man was going to finish his painting and make him bleed for the next session. Maybe not today, but definitely tomorrow. If he managed to survive the night. But he probably would. His transport could be very stubborn when holding on to life.  
He wished this would end, but he didn't want to die. Not yet. He needed to say to John that he was sorry.  
John.  
Even now that man made his stomach twist with joy. How inconceivable. But very welcome. That smile could lit his heart everywhere, any time. God. He never truly had him and now he never would. Stupid. He heard Marc getting up from his stool again. The man yawned. He started gathering his brushes and probably cleaning them, and when he was ready he came back to him. Sherlock's body cramped, as if his transport was trying to get away from the man. Marc chuckled, and stroked Sherlock's side, causing another spasm. He then went back to tying his ankles together, causing pain to his sprained ankle and intense pain at his dislocated knee. It made him see light flashes behind his eyes. He moaned, causing Marc to laugh. Then he did the same with his wrists. His dislocated shoulder almost made him pass out again. Sherlock was repeating in his head to himself; "stay awake, stay awake, stay awake, stay awake."  
But other words came out of his mouth.  
"Please, please stop. No more. Please." It was nothing more than a whisper, almost inaudible, until Marc interrupted him.  
"Look at you. You really are gorgeous like this. I made you like this, I reinvented you."  
A pause.  
" I'm going to go and sleep now. It's not even late at night anymore, but more early in the morning. I suggest you try and do the same. We have a long day tomorrow, you and me. I think I'll might paint you tomorrow again, when the colouring has evolved further. You're skin changes so quick. It's just beautiful. To bad you can't see yourself. You are truly a piece of art like this. One of the best models I ever worked with. I do hope you manage to stay alive for at least two days. The fun is not over yet. And do you know how hard it is to find a good model these days? But, when your job is done, I know who will be my next muse. Although doctor Watson's is a bit old for my taste, his skin does have more of a golden tone. I do think he'll make a beautiful bruising canvas, don't you think? Or maybe he looks better scattered with blood? We'll see."  
"You stay away from John." Sherlock managed to force out. His voice hoarse and cracky.  
"You are not in a position to tell me what to do!" Marc screamed. Sherlock could hear the man stand up and walk towards the place where his tools were. By the sound of it he returned with his leather belt thing again.  
"You stupid man. You'll never learn, will you?"

This was not good. He was hit on his chest again, and on his thighs, abdomen, head, face. Sherlock tried to curl himself up, to protect his body, causing his body to tremble and shiver uncontrollably. He didn't manage to pull his legs up, and his dislocated shoulder made it impossible to cover his head with his arms. He felt the hits with the leather strap and the kicking of the man's boots hitting the back of his legs, bum and back.  
He heared himself moan and beg the man to stop, pleading for some kind of mercy, hating himself for it, but he couldn't help himself. He never begged. When Marc walked around him and hit him again, he managed to curl up just a bit more. When the man kicked against his dislocated knee, the world finally went black again.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You know where to find him?"  
> "Yes. You've been a great help. Thank you."  
> "Is he in trouble?"  
> "He might be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Thank you all for reading.  
> I love this chapter, but a little warning: It's a heavy one!

John followed Nita inside the small house situated on Charing Cross Road. It looked less like a crack-house than the other buildings he had visited tonight, but it still was one, of course. Nita seemed to know where she was going and John followed her. He had checked the gun behind his waistband before they had gotten inside here, but he still felt uncomfortable.

"Chuck!" Nita yelled.  
"Who's there? Nita, is that you?"  
Nita put only her head through the door, blocking John's view on purpose.  
"Yes. Network business. Have you seen Him?"  
"Nope. Not since last week."  
"Anything on the tailing?"  
"Not much. They saw person one getting out of the pub at St. Martin's lane tonight with a broken nose. Got hit by someone. Small bloke, blond. That's all I know."  
Nita turned around to John, who shrugged his shoulders and looked very guilty. He had told Nita what happened, so when she saw the look on his face, she knew enough. They were on the right track.  
"Who saw that? Tom? You know where he is?"  
"Jail. Got busted yesterday for shoplifting, again. You can try Bradley? Or Evelyn? It was one of them."  
"Right. Thanks Chuck!"  
"No problem, Nita."  
Nita turned around and John followed her. Once outside she spoke to him again.  
"Eve and Ley are always together. And they must be in the area. Let's hope they saw something. Come, follow me."  
Nita started walking again, John next to her. They walked around the area, looking in dead end alleys, underneath the bridge and in several abandoned houses.  
Finally, they came across a couple of homeless people. They were at the end of an abandoned alley, warming their selves around a small fire. Eva and Ley where there too. Nita suggested with her hands that they had to come with her, parting them from the others.  
"Have you seen person one?"  
"Yeah, was bleed'ng 'lot. Bar fight. At that place at Mart'ns lane."  
"Have you seen person two?"  
"Not tonight we didn't. Yestr'day. Nothin' special. Try Mellon. She's bin shadowin' 'im today."  
"Have you seen Him?"  
"Nah. Not t'day. Same thing, try Mellon, she might seen 'im."  
"Know where she is?"  
"Ru knows. Ru!" Bradley yelled at the group. One man looked up.  
"Yeah?"  
"Wher's Mellon?"  
"look'n for Nita."  
"I'm here." Nita said.  
The man named Ru pulled up his shoulders and John's heart sank in his shoes. They had been running around London all night, and still no trace of Sherlock.  
"Then she'll find ya. It's Mellon, innit?" Ru said.  
"If you see her, tell her were at Dave's."

"That ain't necessary." A high pitched voice behind them said. Nita and John turned around, to see a small sixty something woman. She was wearing two coats and several scarfs. She winked at John and grinned her ugly teeth bare.  
"Who's this, Nita, new man?"  
"This is a friend. Have you been tracking person two?"  
"Yeah saw 'im. 'Bout eight hours ago. Gett'n our man in 'es car. looked high, or drunk. Couldn't get any clos'r. Happened at Bear's."  
"Who looked high, Mellon?"  
"'Im who came back, o'course. Our man. Thought he didn't do that 'nymore."  
"Mellon, thank you." John interrupted the old lady, getting another wink from her and she shuffled off.  
"I need to go, Nita."  
"You know where to find him?"  
"Yes. You've been a great help. Thank you."  
"Is he in trouble?"  
"He might be. I need to rush. Thank you again, Nita. I couldn't have done it without your help." John squeezed the woman's arm and turned away, heading towards the Mainstreet again.  
"You'll let me know when he's safe, will you?" She said after him.  
"I promise." John said, turning around the corner to search for a cab.

The streets were almost empty. It was already five o'clock in the morning and the city was asleep. It had taken him nine hours to figure out where Sherlock was, and he wasn't even certain yet.  
Marc Jenkins. He was going to kill that man! Sherlock looked high or drunk when he got into the car with that man, that was what Mellon had said. But it had been no more than five minutes after he left the pub. He had no time to use something in that short period, could he? And he drank two pints. He knew Sherlock couldn't handle to much alcohol, but two pints wasn't exactly much.

John was jogging over the pavement. Adrenalin pushing in his veins.  
Why weren't there any cabs when you needed one?!  
On his way, he got past the place where the CCTV had lost track of Sherlock, and the place where he was taken. John slowed his pace, and searched the ground, not entirely certain what he was looking for, until he saw something shimmer behind a trashcan. John bent down and saw an used syringe. Damned!  
When he looked up again he finally saw an empty cab and flagged it over. He got in and told the cabby where to go. It would take about ten minutes to get there.  
John pulled out his phone, and saw he had a message. And a missed call.  
The call was Greg's. But it was from almost two hours ago, so no need to call him back.

1 new message.

_'Please notify me of the status of my brother. MH'_

John started typing.

_'Following lead right know. Will contact you before 7 am. If not, send your army. JW'_

Send.

No need to tell him where he was going, Mycroft was probably following his every step anyway. If Sherlock was at Jenkins' house, John would call him and the Yard to come and arrest that piece of shit. Finally the cab stopped at the address John had given him. He threw a handful of notes to the man and hurried out, to jog the last street. He had been monitoring that address yesterday. (Just yesterday. It felt like days ago.) So he knew how to get to the back alley and he knew which porch was Jenkins'. John's heart rate was just a little elated, his breathing was steady. He was used to moments of stress. He was at his best when he had so much adrenaline and endorphin rushing through his body. His mind was clear, and his hearing sharp.

When he reached the neighbours porch he stopped and listened. Everything was quiet. He reached for his gun and took it steady in hand, moving soundlessly to the porch he had to go through. Carefully he reached for the door handle and slowly he pushed it down, making sure it didn't creak. It was locked from the inside. Of course. He got back to the porch of the neighbours, and tried that one, just as careful. It opened. John peeked through the ajar door, checking the partition between this garden and the next. It was a high hedge. He couldn't get over it or underneath it without making sound. Shit.  
John pulled the door almost close again. He moved towards the neighbours on the other side. Low porch, low fence between the gardens. The house seemed abandoned, the grass and weed reached to his knees. So he had to move slowly. Carefully he got to the fence between the gardens and climbed over it ducking down at the other side.

He watched. The house was dark, as was the atelier. It seemed as if the man wasn't home or was asleep. Probably the latter. If Sherlock was here, he was probably in the atelier. John hoped that he was. Breaking into the atelier seemed easier than breaking into the house.  
After a few minutes of waiting and observing, he slowly started moving again, sure that he didn't wake up anyone, and reached the door of the atelier. It was closed with a lock. John grimaced at the familiarity of the type of lock and reached inside his pockets. He took out a small pack with Sherlock's lock picking kit, glad that he had taken the time to learn from him. John wasn't as fast with it as Sherlock was, and he definitely made more noise than he wanted to, but eventually the lock clicked open. Pushing back the impulse to storm inside, he put his ear against the door, listening if he could hear anything. He rather not wanted to walk in and come face to face with Marc. But all he heard was silence.

Slowly he pushed the door open. He sneaked inside. The room was dark as night, and John couldn't see a thing. It smelled like acrylic paint, vomit, blood and urine. He softly closed the door behind him and searched for a light switch, hoping that it wouldn't lit up the whole garden. He reached with his hand across the wall next to the door until his fingers found what he was looking for. With the Browning steady in his left hand, he switched the light switch with his right.

~

Sherlock had gone in and out of consciousness for more times he could remember. Sometimes he couldn't even tell if he was awake or not. The fever and concussion were still messing with his mind and his transport wasn't listening to him anymore. It shivered and shook uncontrollably at its own will, he had vomited and he even found out that his bladder had emptied himself while he was out. He could smell the urine mixed with the copper smell of blood. Another thing that wasn't good. Not that it mattered anymore.  
He had given up. Somehow this man had broken him down in just a few hours, reduced him to a pathetic hump of pain of what once had been a human man. It was no use. Even if he managed to get his ankles and wrists free, he still was unable to walk. He wasn't even able to move at this moment, or control his bladder, and the longer he was laying here, the stiffer his body got. The pain had become a dull throb, unless his body shivered again. Then his injuries flamed up again, and he would pass out.  
He tried to think of ways of ending this. He could bite off his tongue. He tried, but he couldn't open his mouth far enough because of the swelling on his face and his jaws seemed to have no strength left anymore. When that didn't work he tried to stop his heart with true willpower. That didn't work either. He tried to swallow his tongue, which did make him choke, but also cough, causing fire flaming up in his chest and shoulder, which made him pass out again. How enervating.

He had travelled the world, tearing apart terrorist cells, drug cartels, he had caught serial killers, child molesters, rapists. And he was about to die in the hands of a middle aged amateur painter in the middle of London. Beaten half to death, laying naked on the cold ground in his own piss, vomit and blood. Of all the stupid things he had done in his life, this may have been the stupidest. He should have never walked out on John.

John.

Sherlock refused to think about him. It was just too painful. And it was the only thing that kept him going. And he didn't want that. He wanted to stop existing. Another spasm made him moan, black spots were clouding his vision again, pushing away the small sparkles of light that played behind his eyelids. He let the unconsciousness wash over him, embracing it this time, instead of fighting it. Maybe he was lucky this time and he wouldn't wake up again.

~

The insides of his eyelids seemed to give light. It was a soft gold mixed with pink and blue. Some little white stars slowly danced in his vision.  
"Sherlock?" He heard someone say.  
The voice was soft, sweet, filled with love.  
O great, He died. He died and went to heaven. It was strange, really. He never thought there was an afterlife. He was sure about that. Now that he thought of it, he was rather pleased about it existing after all. It was another puzzle to solve. Another mystery that came into his life to keep him occupied. Well, not really his life, obviously. What was it then? Afterlife? Second life?

"Sherlock." He heard the angel say again.  
God. There were even angels. How predictable. Would they have wings? White fluffy bird like wings? And a white sheet around their body's? He would like that. He felt comfortable in a sheet. Not that he was going to be an angel.  
_"I might be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."_  
He remembered that. Good conversation. And the most intriguing player he had ever had against him. Would Moriarty be here too?  
Was there crime in heaven? Probably not. Dull, boring, and eternal. Ow bugger! This was going to be a disaster.

Dullness for eternity. Maybe this was hell after all. He heard the angel cry. Had he thought out loud? Was the angel so disappointed in him because he thought heaven would be boring? Did angels cry? Never heard of such a thing. It sure wasn't good. Angels shouldn't cry. Maybe he had to apologise or something. Try to be nice.

Sherlock tried to open his eyes and sit up. His body spasmed directly, the pain intense. The pink colour stayed, but there were black spots coming back in his eyesight. His whole body was on fire again.  
Okay, this had to be hell after all.  
"O my god. Sherlock! Sherlock, please! Hush... easy there. It's alright, everything is going to be alright."  
But if this was hell, why was the angel still here? He tried to smile at the angel, to make sure that he could see that everything was just alright.  
"Please, Sherlock, stay with me, don't leave me."  
Was the angel blind? He couldn't move, he wasn't going anywhere.

Idiot.

"I'm going to kill him. I'm going to fucking kill that arsehole."  
This was wrong. Angels didn't swear, did they? He felt soft fingers stroking his hair. It felt nice, as long as he didn't touch his skin, it felt comfortable. He needed to open his eyes, he wanted to see the angel. He tried it again, just his eye's this time. And with a lot off effort, he managed to open them just a bit. It was light, very light, but after a few moments he could see the luminous angel, his face close, probably still sitting next to him on the ground.

Of course. He should have known that the angel would look like John.  
"Sherlock? Hey. Are you with me? Keep still. Try not to move."  
As if he could. The angel was indeed an idiot. A pretty one, but still. He heard more than he saw the angel getting his jacket off. No sheet then, pity. The jacket was lied out over his body. It hurt. He moaned.  
"Shit... Sorry, but we have to keep your body warm."  
Sherlock closed his swollen eyes again. The luminous angel with John's face checked him. He could almost feel the eyes going over his body, starting at his feet. Was he trying to figure out if this body was good enough to enter the gates of heaven or something? Or was angel John a doctor, like human John? He heard him take in a sharp breath. What did he find? The dislocated knee? The ruptured testicle? He felt the angel gaze go upward to his chest. Lifting the jacket again.

"God... What did he do to you?" The angel mumbled. He felt him putting the jacket back over his torso. A hand gently touched his forehead. Yet, he whimpered at it.  
"Bloody hell, you're burning up. Sherlock, can you hear me?"  
It was to much effort to respond. Instead he listened to the sound of that voice.  
"Mycroft. I found him... Yes, but barely, he's losing the battle. I need an ambulance, right now. And the police. We're in his atelier behind the house. Suspect is probably sleeping inside the house... I'm going to kill that son of a bitch!...Yes, of course... I'll do my best... I will. Just... Hurry, Mycroft. "

This became too complicated. Why was the angel calling his brother? Minor government position my arse. God, Was Mycroft like Saint Peter or something? It was unimaginable. He definitely needed some rest, sleep. But he wanted to see the angel again.  
He slowly opened his eyes and when the angel saw he looking at him he lowered himself down next to his face.  
He really was beautiful. Looking like John helped, of course. His skin glowed, his eyes were a pretty deep blue, and the angel was here just for him. Sherlock had too say it, he had to let this spiritual being know that he acknowledged him. So he braced himself, looked the angel John in his eyes, took a breath as deep as he could and opened his mouth. His voice was raucous, an almost unrecognizable rumble.

"My Golden angel."

The angel should be pleased to know that he had seen him and acknowledged him. But the angel started to cry again. Big tears rolling over his cheeks. Poor thing. He wanted to hold the angel in his arms, to comfort him and tell him that everything was going to be alright. But instead, his body trembled again, causing pain, making him black out once more.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This couldn't be happening, this couldn't be real. He just got him back. He needed him.
> 
> He was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Happy easter!   
> Thank you all for reading!  
> I hope you will all enjoy this chapter, too. I love kudos and comments.
> 
> Happy reading!

John was blinded for a moment. He could have known that the room was brightly lit. It was an atelier, after all. He turned away his face from the bright lights and blinked his eyes a few times, to get his vision sharp again. When he finally looked into the room, his heart stopped.  
  
Sherlock.  
  
In the middle of the room on the ground lay the man he lived for. The only one who had ever really mattered. The one he had taken in in his heart, to never let go again.  
  
Battered, demolished, broken.  
  
He was too late.  
  
"Sherlock?" He asked the body laying on the ground against better knowledge. His heart pounded in his ears and the thought of losing this man made him nauseous. The butterflies in his stomach raged in terror, the one that had bitten into his heart began spreading venom. This couldn't be happening, this couldn't be real. He just got him back. He needed him.  
  
He was too late.  
  
The familiar pale skin had turned all shades of pain. Black, blue, red, green, orange, yellow, purple. There was almost no normal pale skin visible anymore. His normally so gracious hands and fingers were bruised and bloated, his sharp angled face almost unrecognizably swollen and discoloured.  
  
He was too late.  
  
"Sherlock." He stated.  
The man's shoulder seemed dislocated. Leaving his arm in a strange angle.  John saw the swelling between his thighs, his scrotum almost purple and the bloodied urine around him. He saw the dislocated knee, swollen and severely damaged.  
  
O god. He was too late.  
  
John cried out loud. He cried for the pain his friend must have bared. He cried for the fact that he couldn't have spared him from it. He cried for all the bruising's on the man's body, all the swellings, all the ruptures underneath that once beautiful skin. He cried for the fact that he hadn't been here for him. He cried for the fact that he lost him.  
  
The body in front of him spasmed uncontrollably. And John's heart stuttered.  
Impossible.  
"O my god. Sherlock! Sherlock, please!   Hush... easy there. It's alright, everything is going to be alright." John said dropping on his knees next to the man. He felt so much relief his chest hurt. He saw Sherlock's mouth make an movement.  
"Please, Sherlock, stay with me, don't leave me."  
John tried to calm himself down, to brace himself. This wasn't the time for some mental breakdown. He tried to focus himself on checking Sherlock's vitals without touching him, setting himself to work. Sherlock's breathing was too shallow, probably bruised or broken ribs.  
"I'm going to kill him. I'm going to fucking kill that arsehole." John muttered under his breath. Looking at Sherlock's face. He felt anger rise up and hoped that the man would walk in through that door this instant. He would kill that man with his bare hands. Despite his angry words his hand carefully stroked Sherlock's hair. The soft curls whirling them self's around his fingers.  
He saw Sherlock's eyelids flutter, and he managed to get his eyes open a bit.  
The unidentifiable colour of his eyes were drenched with blood, but John was so happy to see that Sherlock somehow gave a sign of consciousness.  
"Sherlock? Hey. Are you with me? Keep still. Try not to move."  
But Sherlock's gaze seemed apathetic, as if he could see John sitting next to him, but didn't recognise him. John saw another shiver running down his friend's body. Quickly he took off his coat and tried to put it over him as gently as he could. Sherlock moaned.  
"Shit... Sorry, but we have to keep your body warm." He hoped Sherlock understood what he was saying.  
He saw the detective close his eyes, and John's gaze went over his body again. He couldn't touch him. Not without anesthetics. Doctor Watson mode finally kicked in and John started to catalogue the injuries.  
  
Sprained ankle: musculoskeletal injury in which the ligaments of the ankle are torn.  
Requires ice, rest, and limiting any weight on it. The leg can be elevated to reduce swelling.  
  
Dislocated knee: significant damage of ligaments, possible nerve damage and vascular injury.   
Requires X-ray and possibly surgical intervention.  
  
Testicular rupture: A rip or tear in the tunica albuginea. Possible blood leak into the scrotum.  
Requires surgery to repair the rupture.  
  
He took a sharp breath. That injury would hurt like hell. Maybe even more than the knee.  
Ignoring the bruising's on the skin in front of him, John lifted the jacket from Sherlock's body to look for other severe injuries that needed medical care as soon as possible.  
He saw the dislocated shoulder and the very shallow breathing.  
  
Dislocated shoulder: the humerus separated from the scapula at the shoulder joint. Cartilage, muscle, and other tissues stretched and torn.  
Requires closed reduction, rest.  
  
Partially collapsed lung: shortness of breath and nasal flaring. Can deteriorate into tension pneumothorax if left untreated.  
Requires Draining Excess Air.  
  
"God... What did he do to you?" John mumbled, putting his jacket back over Sherlock's chest. Softly he touched his forehead with the back of his hand. Sherlock whimpered.  
"Bloody hell, you're burning up. Sherlock, can you hear me?"  
No response. Fuck. He needed to take action.  
John reached inside the back pocket of his jeans and got his phone out. He started dialing. Within a second it was answered.  
"Mycroft, I found him."  
"Thank god. He is alive?" The man at the other and said, relief in his voice.  
" Yes, but barely, he's losing the battle. I need an ambulance, right now. And the police. We're in his atelier behind the house. Suspect is probably sleeping inside the house."  
"Ambulance is on its way as we speak.  The Yard will be informed. My agents will take care of mister Jenkins."  
"I'm going to kill that son of a bitch!" John hissed between his teeth, still looking at the demolished body in front of him.  
"John. Don't do anything stupid. You stay with him, alright?"  
"Yes, of course."  
"Give him the medical attention he needs and you can provide."  
"I'll do my best."  
"I know you will. Please, doctor Watson, try and save my brother's life."  
"I will. Just... Hurry, Mycroft. "  
John put down his phone. Christ! He couldn't do anything. Not with this body so severely damaged. It would only cause more harm. He needed to be sedated first. John looked at Sherlock's face and saw that he had opened his eyes again, and John leaned into him. John saw Sherlock take a deeper breath than he had done since John found him. It was stuttering and he could see that it took Sherlock a lot of effort. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, and john leaned in closer, so he could hear his raucous, and almost unrecognisable rumble.  
  
"My Golden angel." He sighed.  
  
John's heart broke. Tears were running down his face, and it felt as if the butterflies in his stomach had committed mass suicide.  
Sherlock's eyes locked on John's, but his body started to tremble uncontrollably. A heartbreaking whine left the detective's throat before he passed out. The trembling became less and stopped within a few seconds. John was still sitting on his knees next to him, still crying, but now the man had blacked out, he could finally examine him properly. He touched and felt, careful not to hurt him or make the trauma worse, stopping from time to time to wipe some tears away.  He took his coat off of him and carefully unbind his wrists and ankles. The fever had to come down, and the bruising's needed cooling-off.  
He felt a bumb on the back of Sherlock's head, and he let his fingers touch the rest of his skull, feeling swellings and bumps all over.   
Please let it just be a concussion, don't let this beautiful mind be damaged.  
John looked around him for something he could use to do something for him, anything. Finally he got up and grabbed the roll of paper next to one of the artworks Jenkins had made of Sherlock. John didn't look at it. He didn't want to see. With the paper he gently cleaned the vomit from Sherlock's jaw and chin, and the urine and blood from his abdomen, groin and thighs. Carefully watching Sherlock's breathing and heartbeat. They were both shallow and quick, but stable.  
Sherlock needed to survive this. John needed him to survive this.  
Sherlock's body shivered again. But the man stayed unconscious. Cleaning him up was all he could do without his medical kit. When he was finished, he knelt back beside Sherlock's chest, making sure that if Sherlock opened his eyes, he was the fist thing he would see. He stroked the soft dark curls again.  
  
"I need you, you know." John told the passed out man in front of him.  
"I was so lost without you. I wanted to kill myself, every morning I picked up my gun, put it against my head and asked myself if this was the day I would end it all. It was tempting, sometimes. But then came the day I met you. The most extraordinary, arrogant, childish and brilliant man I've even seen in my life. I loved you instantly, you know. Well, maybe not the first time at Bart's, I was a bit overwhelmed by you then, but definitely the day after.  
I fell for you as a rock. Your beautiful brain, your quick deductions, your sense of humor, your hang for danger, I thought it was enchanting."  
  
The corner of John's mouth twitched up in a small smile, thinking back at that moment. The shy butterflies in his stomach came back, carefully exploring if it was safe to show themselves again.  
  
"I tried to deny it to myself. I wasn't gay. I never fell in love with a man before. I'm not attracted to male body's. I still don't. But you're my exception. God, that long limbs and graceful movements. And your hands, the're gorgeous. And your lips and your eyes and that ridiculous mop of breathtaking curls... You had me questioning my sexuality within forty eight hours, and you got me wanking on you within two weeks. If you would have told me that a year before, I would have laughed about it. I was Three bloody Continents Watson. I shared my bed with more woman than I can count, and I enjoyed all of it. I loved it.  
But, there I was. Nearing forty, war veteran, starting to get grey, and hopelessly in love with his very male, very daft roommate. Who had made it very clear from the start that he wasn't interested in any of those things."  
  
John felt at Sherlock's forehead again. Still burning. Where was the ambulance? How long ago had he called Mycroft? He checked his phone. Ten minutes. They could be here any minute. They probably had to wait until the Yard or Mycroft's agents had cleared the house. John's fingers stroked Sherlock's hair again. God, he loved this man.  
  
"You're an idiot, you know that?" He said tenderly.  
"You're a bloody idiot not telling me things. You were married to your work, you weren't interested in things like sentiment and emotions. And I believed you. Every time I thought I saw you looking at me with more than friendship in your eyes, I thought it was something I imagined. Wishful thinking. You never said a word.  
You broke my heart with that fall. I was lost again and after a few weeks without you, the gun came back. I put it against my head again. But there were to many people caring now. Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly. They all lost you already, so who was I to make them go through another loss again? But I faded. I faded away without you. And it wasn't just me. We all did. Mrs Hudson became quieter, Molly pulled herself back even more, and Greg pounced himself on his work. You're important. To all of us. We need you, Sherlock. You can't just die on us. You can't just die on me. And if you're stubborn and do it anyway, then I'm coming with you. I'm not doing this without you again. I can't. I won't. So don't die on me. Do you hear me, Sherlock? Don't you dare and die on me."  
  
John's head flew up when he heard noise coming from the house. He reached for his gun and pulled the safety off. He stood up and braced himself between the door and Sherlock's body, protecting him. The noise continued, and he heard footsteps running through the garden heading towards the atelier. John pointed his gun to the door, ready for who ever was coming in. The door bashed open and Greg stormed in, his gun in hand.  
"John!" He said relieved but when he saw the molested body behind him he looked shocked.  
"O Jesus, no."  
"Where's the ambulance?" John interrupted him. Greg focused back on John.  
"Right behind us. Is he going to make it?"  
  
John didn't answer. Instead he turned back to Sherlock and dropped himself on his knees next to him again.  
"Fuck." Greg swore. He turned around and stuck his head out of the door.  
"Oi! Get those medics here! Now!"  
He came back into the room and looked more at John than Sherlock.  
"Can we do anything?"  
"Not without medical equipment, no. I did everything I could."  
"He's going to get through this."  
John looked up at Greg, the pain visible in his eyes.  
"He will, John."  
"Greg..."  
At that moment the door opened again, letting in two paramedics who knelled down next to Sherlock and immediately started their work. John started to explain what he already had found out about Sherlock's condition. When he mentioned the ruptured testicle's and the dislocated knee, Greg turned white as a sheet. The paramedic listened to him while working, and nodded.  
"Thank you for your help, sir. We will get him to the hospital as soon as possible."  
Two other paramedics arrived with a stretcher and the man John talked with gave Sherlock an IV. Sherlock began to spasm again. Moaning, trying to get away.  
"Hold him still. We need to stabilise his leg first."  
Sherlock seemed to panic, moving his head and trying to get up.  
"John..." He moaned whining and he got unconscious again. John felt his stomach twist.  
"Quick. Get him on the stretcher. The morphine will keep him down." They covered Sherlock's body with an emergency blanket and pulled the stretcher down next to him.  
"Sir." John heard Donovan say from outside the door.  
"Jenkins is on his way to the Yard. You want us to follow?"  
"Yes. Question him. Let forensics search this place. I'm taking John to the hospital."  
"Yes sir." Donovan disappeared again, but not before she had her eyes gaze over Sherlock.  
"I'm making sure we get a confession out of that fucking arsehole before sunrise." She said as goodbye and left.  
Sherlock was tilted onto the stretcher, and both John and Greg followed the medics out, heading towards the hospital.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine Sherlock with brain damage."  
> "I rather do not."  
> "Me neither. But it has been close. It would have killed him, eventually."  
> "Yes. You are correct on that. But not just him."  
> "Are you talking about yourself?"  
> "No. I am not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a roller-coaster of emotions for the last chapters, and were not finished yet.  
> I hope you will all enjoy this one.  
> Happy reading!

Mycroft walked into the small waiting room of the hospital at the intensive care unit. The tapping of his umbrella matching the pace of his footsteps. Detective Inspector Lestrade was sitting on one of the uncomfortable chairs. Mycroft walked across the further empty waiting room and took a seat next to the inspector. Greg looked up. His eyes were red, as if he had been crying. Had he? Or had he just worked too long? No. Definitely crying.  
Sentiment.  
He understood it too well.

"Gregory." He said, while getting his coat off.  
"Mr. Holmes."  
"Any news on my brother?"  
"He's just out of surgery. They had to operate him to set his dislocated knee back and to fix a ruptured testicle."  
"That's sounds... painful."  
"It does, doesn't it? He also had a collapsed lung, severe bruised tailbone, dislocated shoulder, sprained ankle, bruised ribs, severe concussion. They were afraid that it was an severe traumatic brain injury. But scans showed that it's a severe concussion. His whole body is covered in bruising's. But he's going to make it."

Gregory turned towards the elder Holmes brother.  
"It's amazing that he's alive, actually. Recovery will take months."  
"And doctor Watson?"  
"He's with him."  
"As suspected."  
Mycroft sighed. They sat together in silence for a moment.  
"I saw him. I saw the state he was in. God. Any other man would have died. John was certain of it. I could see it in his face. He's a doctor, he knows these things."  
"He does."  
"Imagine Sherlock with brain damage."  
"I rather do not."  
"Me neither. But it has been close. It would have killed him, eventually."  
"Yes. You are correct on that. But not just him."  
"Are you talking about yourself?"  
"No. I am not."  
"Aren't you going to see him?"  
"Dr. Watson is inside. And they have a one visitor policy. I can wait."

And so he did. Greg got called away after an hour, and he left Mycroft alone in the room.  
After almost one and a half hour, John emerged from the room where Sherlock lied, and walked into the waiting room.  
"Mycroft." John greeted him.  
"John." He said, standing up. Mycroft got his coat back on.  
"Care to join me?"  
"Are we going to smoke?"  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  
"We? You're a doctor."  
"A bloody stressed one."  
"I see. Come."  
John walked with him outside. Standing in front of the hospital, Mycroft gave John a cigarette and handed him a lighter.  
John lit it and inhaled.  
"Still low tar?"  
"Yes."  
"It's still deathly."  
"I am not worried about my own life, Dr. Watson. How's my brother?"  
"Stable."  
John inhaled again.  
"He's asleep now. He will not wake up until this evening. Have you heard what has happened to him?"  
"I did. D.I. Lestrade informed me."  
"Then you know in how much pain he's in. And how close he was."  
"I do. But he fought for it. He's not leaving you behind this time."  
"Let's not draw our conclusions yet."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Looking at the smoking doctor next to him.  
"Are you going to tell him what happend while he was away?"  
"I might, eventually."  
"He would like to know."  
"We'll see about that."  
John was looking at the people coming and going at the hospital. It was half past three now, a time people came by to visit their loved ones that were hospitalised. But Mycroft could see that the man didn't notice any of them.  
Mycroft observed him and made an decision.  
"You are telling him something else first, and you don't know how he is going to respond to that. If he responds reluctant, you will go and never tell him what happened. " Mycroft deduced.  
John looked at the man next to him.  
"Did somebody ever tell you that you are too clever for your own good?"  
Mycroft twisted his lips into something that looked like a grin.  
"They usually save that one for my brother."  
"Hmmm... makes sense. Mycroft, listen. I never thanked you."  
"No need."  
"I do. Thank you, Mycroft. For giving me this chance."  
"Accepted. I do feel myself obliged to tell you one thing before you speak to my brother."  
"God. Are you going to warn me?"  
"I am. But not in the way you are assuming. Be careful with him, John. Don't let him break you."  
"Excuse me?" John asked confused.  
"You know how he is." Mycroft explained himself. He saw John getting angry.  
"Better than you, apparently." He answered, biting his words.

Mycroft smiled.  
"You might be right. I do wish you all the luck, of course. I am going to check on my brother now, if you don't mind. Good day, Doctor Watson."  
Mycroft dropped his cigarette and put it out with his foot. He turned towards the hospital doors and went inside, leaving John behind.

That evening John sat in the chair next to Sherlock's bed. It had been a long day. He couldn't remember the last time he slept. Sherlock was moving a bit again, as he had done for the last half hour. He would probably wake up soon. Every soft moan he heard coming over the detective's lips made his heart bleed. Even with the morphine and sleep he was still in pain.

"John?" A soft raspy voice said.  
"Yes, I'm here Sherlock. I'm here."  
"Ghnnn..."  
And Sherlock was out again. John's heart bashed against his ribs.  
A few hours later, Sherlock woke up again.  
"John?"  
"I'm here."  
"Okay."  
Sherlock closed his eyes again, but kept some consciousness this time.  
After several minute, he asked:  
"John? Am I dead?"  
"No, Sherlock. Thank god you're not."  
John stood up, going to alert a nurse that he was awake.  
"Don't leave." The broken voice said that came from the bed.  
"I won't. Just getting you a nurse."  
When John returned only half a minute later, Sherlock was sound asleep again.

John had fell asleep in the chair next to the bed. When he woke up, he saw Sherlock looking at him.  
"Hey. Good morning."  
"Hello." The cracking voice replied.  
"How are you feeling?"  
"Sore, bashed, drugged. And my head hurts. You?"  
"Relieved."  
"Hmmm."  
"Can I get you anything? Water?"  
Sherlock had closed his eyes again, to painful to keep them open just yet.  
"No."

~

"I'm just going home to shower and change my clothes. Been in these for three days now."  
Sherlock looked at John. It had been two days since he woke up in the hospital, and his eyes were capable to stay open now.  
"Haven't you been home yet?" He lisped a bit due to the still somewhat swollen lips.  
"No."  
"Why?"  
"To keep an eye on you, I need to be here, don't I?"  
Where did you sleep?"  
"Chair."  
"Come back soon?"  
"I promise."

~

When John peeked through the ajar door of Sherlock's hospital room, he could see him sitting up a bit, eating an yogurt with a disgusted look on his face.  
"Good morning."  
"Have you ever had one of these? They are foul."  
"Yeah. I know. Worked in a hospital, remember?"  
Sherlock put the yogurt aside, wincing a bit when he turned his upper body.  
"How are you feeling?"  
"Fine."  
John rolled his eyes.  
"How are you really feeling?"  
"Better than yesterday. Probably worse than tomorrow."  
"Well, I see you got your mouth back already."  
"Shut up."

With a small smile on his face, John took a seat in the chair next to the bed.  
"They won't let me out of bed."  
"Sherlock. You've had surgery just four days ago. And yesterday you couldn't even stay awake for more than one hour at the time. Of course they won't let you out of the bed."  
"But I'm feeling much better. Have you got any idea how boring it is in here? You can at least go home and sleep in your own bed."  
"How are your painkillers?"  
"They gave me a remote. I can adjust the doses myself now."  
John looked at the IV with morphine.  
"You think that's wise?"  
"A bit faith, John. I'm keeping the doses low, so I can think properly. If you'll excuse me, I need to go to my mind palace and analyse my injuries."  
John huffed and rolled his eyes. Good thing he brought a book, then.

~

Sherlock had lay awake all night, and so slept most of the day. Even after five days of hospitalisation, he still felt weaker than he wanted. He just wanted to go home and let everything go back to normal. It was dark out, and John had been there all day, again, reading some stupid book. He would probably go home soon, getting some sleep himself.

"We need to talk." John said.  
John and Sherlock looked at each other and Sherlock's jaw tensed.  
Neither of them said a word. Sherlock saw the emotions in John's eyes. He felt his heart speeding.  
O god. This was it. He was waiting for this to happen. He just had hoped it wasn't going to be so soon. The extraordinary army doctor, blogger, friend, love of his life was leaving him.

After at least ten seconds had ticked away, Sherlock swallowed and took a deep breath.  
"I want to apologise for my behavior. I got caught in the moment. I am sorry for what I did and I understand that your going to get your things and move out the apartment before I am released. But I really have to say that I am a bit disappointed by the fact that you chose to start this conversation while I am bound in a hospital bed, unable to move around or to get away, just so you can get this over with without me giving a tantrum, which I obviously wasn't going too, because I was waiting for this moment to happen. My apologies again, I shouldn't have done that. I made a mistake, and I can assure you that it won't happen again. But I'll make sure Mycroft will help you to get another place to stay within a maximum of ten miles radius from your office, affordable. Please, don't feel obligated to stay here and watch over me, there are a dozen of nurses who can take care of that. And if you don't mind, I would rather be left alone right now."

John blinked his eyes, confusion in his face, which turned to anger in seconds.  
"Wiliam Sherlock Scott Holmes, you are a bloody idiot."  
It was Sherlock's time to look confused now.  
"You daft git. Really? Do you really think so low of me? Jesus.."  
John got up from his chair next to the hospital bed and walked towards the window, looking outside. It was dark out, and raining, of course, so there wasn't much to see.  
"Look. I..." John started.  
Sherlock could see the tension in John's shoulders. Whatever he was going to say, he seemed stressed about it.  
"...I'd rather not." He finished his sentence.  
"Rather not? Rather not what, John? Please be explicit."  
John turned back towards Sherlock.  
"Move out."

Silence again. Sherlock could almost hear John's mind working as hard as his own. What did he mean by that?  
"Excuse me?"  
"I told you that I had help from your homeless network to find you, remember that?"  
"Yes. But I don't see what that has to do with it."  
"I'm getting there, just hear me out. I went from drug den to drug den searching for you. I was sure you were having a danger night. And in my search I met a woman named Nita."  
Sherlock's heart stuttered but John continued.  
"She told me about your history together. She told me about your addiction, getting clean and eventually staying clean. And the reason for it."  
"Did she." Sherlock started more than asked.  
"She did. And you are a bloody idiot for not telling me that."

"What would have been the point?" Sherlock said agitated, raising his voice.  
"Bloody hell, Sherlock! You're unbelievable. What would have been the point?!" John yelled back, turning around, facing him again.  
"Yes! You're the one who said that you weren't gay!"  
"And you said you were married to your work! You should have told me!"  
"Why?!"

John shook his head, and lowered his voice to a normal speaking tone again.  
"Because, then we would not have wasted all this time, Sherlock."  
"We would not have what?"  
Truly confused, Sherlock looked at his best friend. Was this conversation really happening?  
"And you say that I am slow." John said, softly laughing, rolling his eyes. The anger on his face was gone.  
"Do you have any idea what my first thought was when I met you? I thought that you were amazing, gorgeous, fucking hot and exceptional. I thought that you were the most amazing human being that must exist on this world. And I still believe that. All of that. Damn Sherlock, you had me head over heels within twenty four hours."  
"I did?"  
John was truly laughing now.  
"Yes you bloody did. God. You have no idea how many times I had to control myself not to snog you senseless, to just go for it and see where it would take us. But you stated you were not interested in such a thing. And I really didn't want to lose what we had."

Sherlock was quiet. John gave him time to process everything he just said to him. He looked at him, laying there in that hospital bed with all the tubes and wires on him, the coloured bruising's on his face, the splint leg sticking out from under the sheets. And decided that he was still bloody gorgeous.  
"John?" Sherlock said with a small and insecure voice. John looked in those beautiful colour shifting eyes of him.

"I want you to snog me senseless." Sherlock said, and John's grin couldn't get any bigger.  
"Right now." Sherlock demanded then, his voice a lot surer now.  
"Impossible. Have you seen you? I'll hurt you."  
"I don't care. I'm not going to wait any longer."  
"Sherlock..."  
"No. Otherwise I'll come out of this bed and snog yòu senseless."  
"That's definitely not gonna happen. You need to stay in that bed."  
John took the six strides that separated them towards the bed and leaned over Sherlock. His left hand on the mattress next to Sherlock's left shoulder, his right hand stroking the soft dark curls.  
"Are you sure?" He asked Sherlock tenderly, his hand going down and cupping Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock brought his own hand up and lied it on top of John's.  
"I'm sure."

John bent down until his lips met Sherlock's. And very softly and sweetly, trying not to hurt him, he kissed him.  
Sherlock's lips were plush against his own. Still a bit swollen, but warm and inviting. Sherlock's hand went from the top of John's hand to the back of John's head, keeping him in place and to intensify their kiss. He stroked his tongue over John's lips, asking for permission, and John opened his mouth for him. For the second time their tongues met. And they both felt a sparkle in their body's. After almost a minute, Sherlock's body began slightly to tremble, and unfortunately for him John noticed it. He pulled back.  
"You're not ready for this, Sherlock."  
"I've waited four years for this. Believe me, I'm ready."  
"Right. You know what I mean, you git. You're body isn't up for it yet."  
Sherlock grumbled something unrecognisable.  
"Don't mock. Well have enough time for that when you're recovered."  
"O. I'm counting on that. I'm planning to keep you inside my bedroom for at least two weeks."  
John giggled at that.  
"Yòur bedroom?"  
"Bigger bed, softer mattress. Less stairs. We might have to make it a bit more sound proof."  
"O god. What am I getting myself into?"  
Sherlock chuckled at that remark, but it ended with a growl of pain.  
"You need to sleep." John said concerned.  
"I know. Stay?"  
"Of course. There is nowhere that I would rather be right now."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock thought about it for a few seconds.  
> "Ten years, four months, and eighteen days ago."  
> "Fuck... How did you manage to not explode? More then ten years..."  
> "Mind over matter, John. It's a mind set. You?"  
> "You'll probably know better than me."  
> Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
> "So, not in my... absence?"  
> "No."  
> "Two years, one month and sixteen days, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank god! Our two favorite idiots are finally being honest towards each other. JohnLock happened!  
> Happy reading!

They talked. There was just so much they could do. Sherlock wasn't going to be released just yet, so John was sitting next to the hospital bed as much as possible. The first three nights he had spent in the hospital, but the two nights after that he went home to sleep. After their confessions to each other, John stayed the night in the chair again. The next day, Sherlock had almost panicked because John wasn't there when he woke up. When John came in ten minutes later freshly showered and with a hot cup of coffee, he assured him that he didn't change his mind, and that the conversation of yesterday really had taken place.

Sherlock tried to convince the doctors that he was ready to go home, but it didn't work. John was secretly pleased with that. Knowing Sherlock, he would be up way to soon, trying to occupy that big brain of him. And he was already bored out of his mind after a week of hospitalisation. John was seated next to his bed, the chair shoved as close as possible. Keeping him company, making sure he wasn't going to get up and do anything stupid. And Sherlock was perfectly comfortable with John so close next to him. It did occur to him to get out of bed and to do something stupid, but he rather stayed here with John.

So instead, finally, after all that time of swirling around each other, they talked.

~

"Can I change your bedroom into a laboratory?"  
John chuckled.  
"No."  
"Why not?"  
"I'd like to keep an eye on you in case your planning in setting things on fire or blowing stuff up again."  
"Bummer."  
"Yeah. I thought about changing it into a fitness room."  
"Not a studio for your drawing?"  
John smiled.  
"No, I rather do that in the living room, keeping an eye on you."

~

"You kept dating." Sherlock said to John. John gave him an half smile, softly squeezing Sherlock's hand he was covering with his own.  
"I know. But I couldn't have you. So I tried to live a normal life as your purely platonic friend and roommate, tried to put my focus elsewhere, dating nice woman, but they just could never compete with you."  
"Yes, you always managed to bring home the most boring and dull ones you could find."  
"Oi!"  
"It's true. But always female, never male. Why?"  
"I'm not gay."  
"There you go again." Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
John smirked.  
"I'm just not! Can't change what I am, can I? Don't look at me like that. You are my exception."  
"And you don't foresee any... difficulties in the nearby future with that straightness of yours?"  
Sherlock asked curious.  
"Definitely not. You've been the star in all my fantasies for the last years. I'll manage."

~

"They shaved my scrotum."  
John almost chocked in his coffee.  
"Ehm. Yes. They had too to preform surgery. "  
"John." Sherlock whined.  
"They shaved my balls. They didn't even do it properly."  
"Christ Sherlock! Stop talking about your balls. It's distracting."  
They looked each other in the eyes. John's face flushed red, Sherlock as steady as usual.  
"It itches."  
He said serious, before his face broke into a grin.  
"Ow you cheeky bastard! If that's an invitation to scratch, than you're going to be disappointed. Were not going in to this... Whatever this is, like that."  
"Hmmm... Won't enjoy it yet anyway. Too sore."

~

"Have you ever... You know?"  
Sherlock barked out a laugh.  
"I'm not a saint, John. And you can call it sex. In contrary to whatever my brother said, sex doesn't alarm me. I just don't practise it at the moment."  
"When was the last time?"  
Sherlock thought about it for a few seconds.  
"Ten years, four months, and eighteen days ago."  
"Fuck... How did you manage to not explode? More then ten years..."  
"Mind over matter, John. It's a mind set. You?"  
"You'll probably know better than me."  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
"So, not in my... absence?"  
"No."  
"Two years, one month and sixteen days, then."

~

"Have you ever been in a relationship?"  
"I believe I'm in one now."  
"You bloody bet your arse you are."  
John replied, earning a small smile.  
"Before then? No. I haven't. I did have one shag that kept coming back for more, does that count?"  
"Not sure... Did you like him?"  
"Her. And no. Not particularly."  
"That's no relationship."  
"Then I'll stay with my first answer."

~

"When was the last time you used drugs?"  
"That was four months and six days after we've met. And it was the fourth time since we've met. It was a superb seven percent solution. But I didn't really enjoy it. Couldn't stop feeling guilty about it. Anahita opened my eyes that day."  
"Yeah, she told me."  
"She just said to stop doing it. And I did."

~

"How does it feel to you?"  
Sherlock asked. John didn't lift his head from the mattress. He sat in his usual chair next to the hospital bed, and he had rested his head on his arms onto the bed. Sherlock was softly massaging his skull.  
"Hmmm. Lovely. Don't stop."  
He could hear the deep rumble of Sherlock's chuckle.  
"Not that. Being in love."  
John was silent for a few. seconds.  
"I feel as if I'm on a cloud. As if my heart is to big to fit in my chest. And I have butterflies in my stomach."  
"Butterflies?"  
"Yeah. They really like you."  
Sherlock chuckled again.

~

"Top or bottom?"  
"That's quite the question you're asking."  
"Well, I am your doctor, so it seems that I am obligated to know."  
"Both then. I'm more curious about your feelings about that matter, really."  
"I don't have anything to go with, so I'll say top. I can relate to that, as you can imagine. But who knows."  
"Can't wait to find out."  
"Sassy."  
That made Sherlock laugh again.

~

It was already late at night. John was almost asleep in his chair when Sherlock had started talking again.  
"I'm curious what you want to do to me when we get home." His voice soft and low.  
"The things I'll do to you..." John said sleepy.  
"O yeah?"  
"Hmmm."  
"Care to share?"  
"Can't wait to touch you, to get to know that part of you."  
"And which part would that be?"  
"Everything. I want to know what kind of sounds you make. What makes you whimper, moan and beg for more."  
"Hmmm... I can live with that."  
"Do you now?"  
"Always did. But please, explain yourself. I'm curious." Sherlock added when he saw John's expression.  
John lifted an eyebrow.  
"First, I'm going to take your coat off and settle you on the sofa, then I'll put on the kettle."  
"John..."  
"And while I wait for the kettle to boil, I'm going to make sure you are lying comfortable. I'll sit next to you on the sofa, and I'll start getting your shirt open, one button at the time, and I'll do that with my mouth on your neck, kissing and tasting you. I'll rub my fingers against your nipples. How hard can I get them? Maybe I'll pinch them a bit, just to hear you moan. I'll push your shirt further open, and I will work my way down with my mouth from your neck towards your chest, letting my tongue play with your left nipple, my fingers with the right, before they go down a bit further."  
"Jesus, John, stop."  
"Already? I haven't even started properly yet."  
But when John saw Sherlock's frown he asked;  
"Are you all right?"  
"Hmpf... I'm getting an erection, and it bloody hurts."  
"Told you we should take it slow. You need your body to heal first."  
"I'm not a patient man, John."  
"As if I don't know that already. Try to go to sleep. I better head back to Bakerstreet."  
John stood up and bent over Sherlock, giving him a kiss in his hair.  
"I'll be back first thing in the morning, all right?"  
"All right. Goodnight, John."  
"Goodnight, Sherlock."

~

"Have you drawn anything since the case?"  
"Yes I have actually."  
"What is it?"  
John chuckled.  
"Rather who."  
"Well, who is it, then?"  
"Mrs. Hudson."  
"Really?"  
"Yes."  
"Any good?"  
"I don't know. It's my own work, Sherlock. I cant say if it's good, can I?"  
"You should show me. I'll promise I'll be honest."  
"I expect no less from you."  
"Do you accept commissions?"  
"From you?"  
"Obviously."  
"I'll probably do."  
"Can you please draw my brother with little horns on his head? And a bit fatter?"  
John laughed.  
"You're such a child."  
"I know."  
"Please, never change."  
"Wasn't planning too."

~

"Good morning."  
"Look, they got me off the monitor's and painkillers."  
"That's great! Just some drip to hydrate you?"  
"Yeah, that's it. Care for a hug?"  
"From you? Always."  
Take of your shoes, and climb into bed with me."  
"It won't fit."  
"Of course it will. You're short and I'm skinny. It will fit easily. Now come here, I want you close."

~

"The doctors say it will at least take another four weeks before my testicle is healed properly. Until then I can't have any sexual intercourse."  
John looked at him with empathy.  
"You'll survive. You did manage to get over ten years without it."  
"Yes. But then you were not waiting for me. Four weeks, John!"  
"And what about your knee?"  
"They will remove the splint tomorrow, giving me a brace."  
"You do realise it can take a year until full recovery?"  
"Yes. I won't be running after criminals for the first few weeks."  
"You mean months."  
"Shut up."

~

"David once said to me that he didn't have any interest in getting me into his bed."  
"That man is blind."  
"He told me that it wouldn't work. He said that we were to much the same, wanting to be pleased."  
"Do you?"  
"Of course. But I also want to bring you pleasure. I want to know what turns you on and what it will take to let you forget your own name."  
John swallowed.  
"And because I can't have to much going on down there for the first weeks to come, I need to keep myself occupied with other activities."  
"Other activities? Like what?"  
"Well, I have been told on more than one occasion that I have a perfect mouth."  
"O bloody hell..."  
"And tongue."  
"Jesus..."  
"And I play the violin, so I'm really clever with my fingers."  
"You're going to be the death of me, aren't you?"

~

"Why Three Continents Watson?"  
"You never asked before."  
"It wasn't because I wasn't curious."  
"Well, you can take that quite literally."  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
"Just deduce it." John encouraged him.  
"Okay. My first thought is that you have had woman in your bed from all three continents.  
"Correct."  
Sherlock gazed at him.  
"There's more?"  
"Yes."  
Hmm... You've had woman on all three continents."  
"Correct."  
John looked at him, awaiting.  
"Even more?"  
"Yeah."  
"Impossible."  
"Nope."  
Sherlock frowned, thinking. But after two minutes he gave up.  
"Just tell me, John. I'm not going to figure it out."  
John chuckled.  
"Let's just say that some of them claimed that I don't settle for less."  
"Stop talking to me like I am some innocent, inexperienced, young man, John. Just be clear."  
John grinned.  
"It's not just the Continents. I didn't settle for less than three. I always wanted to show them the stars. If the second orgasm is so much better than the first, why not push it further?"  
"And you say that I am going to be the death of you?"

~

"You're awake." John asked when he opened the door of the room.  
"Of course. Quite bored, actually. What are you doing here? It's three in the morning."  
"I couldn't sleep."  
"Liar."  
John grinned sheepishly at that.  
"Yeah. Had a nightmare, bad one. Wanted to make sure you were okay."  
Sherlock frowned.  
"Why would you want to make sure that I am okay while you were the one with the nightmare?"  
John looked a bit sad at that.  
"I dreamt you jumped again. And you were dead."  
"Come here. I wouldn't never do something like that again."

~

"The swelling in your face is almost gone."  
"Yes. I've noticed. I can finally eat normally without hurting myself."  
"I brought you something."  
"You did? Why?"  
"Because I wanted to."  
John pulled a paper sack from his bag and gave it to Sherlock. He took it and opened it."  
"Ginger nuts! John, you're a mind reader."

~

"Do you remember calling me the golden angel?"  
"That really happened?"  
"Yes. So you do remember?"  
"I thought it was a dream. I died and went to heaven. I already thought is was weird that the angel had your face. But dreams can be strange, can't they?"  
"Yes, they can."

~

"God. I can't wait to touch you."  
"Patience, Sherlock."  
"Don't have any. Want you now."  
"We have to go slow. Near death experience, remember?"  
"Sod that. I want my lips on you, my fingers. I want to rub up against you, make you squirm and moan."  
"Sherlock..."  
"I want to touch you everywhere and I want to see your face when you come."  
"Sherlock! Stop it. You're voice and that vocabulary is an illegal combination."  
"Just wait till we get home. I'll show you what my voice can do to you."

~

I showered myself this morning."  
"Good for you!"  
"Yes. I rather do it myself then have some idiot nurse do it."  
"They're not idiots, Sherlock. And they're just trying to help."  
"Hmmm.. I shaved myself too."  
"That's... nice?"  
"Everything."  
"Everything?"  
"I told you they didn't do a proper job. And it itched."  
"What? You shaved your sack?"  
"Properly. I think I like it this way."  
"O Jesus."  
"What?"  
"My heart."

~

"I lied."  
"You do that often. About what?"  
"The dream."  
John raised an eyebrow.  
"The angel dream?"  
"Yes. I didn't think it was a dream at the time. I thought I really had died."  
"You don't believe in afterlife."  
"Obviously. I was scared."  
"I can imagine that. Thinking you're really dead does that to people."  
"No, you don't understand. I was scared because of the eternity of it. Can you imagine? For ever without any hope for a crime or murder to solve? I would lose my mind. And all the angels looked like you. I wasn't sure if it was heaven or hell. I really didn't want that."  
"You were running a fever and did nearly die, Sherlock. Your mind was playing tricks on you."  
"You do make a pretty angel, John. Almost as pretty as in real life."

~

"I thought you were dead when I found you. I thought I was to late."  
"But you weren't."  
"It was close."  
"Yes. But you made it in time, John. Don't worry about it."  
"I wasn't going to handle it."  
"My death?"  
"My life without you."  
"What do you mean by that, John?"  
Sherlock's voice had dropped, and it was softer than usual. John tried to smile, but failed at it. His eyes were sad.  
"If you had been really gone. I promised myself to never live through that again, facing the world without you. I would have shot myself."  
"Again?"  
"After your fall..."  
"John..."  
"No, let me finish, this is important. I want you to understand what you mean to me, Sherlock. After your fall, it just wasn't worth it anymore. I tried, Sherlock. I tried for Mrs Hudson, for Molly, for Greg. But not for myself. I just couldn't handle it. It was as if I was back to before I met you, when I had come back from Afghanistan. My life was empty, the world grey. Every morning and evening I would take my gun out and weight it in my hands again, wondering if I was going to do it today.  
And...One time, I did. I killed myself. It was our anniversary. The day we had met, three years before. I went to Angelo's, sat at our table. Ordered your favourite and an expensive bottle of wine. I felt I needed to say goodbye to you, somehow. I went home to my apartment, drank whiskey, I put the gun against my head, and I pulled the trigger.  
I pulled the trigger, and someone had taken my bullets out."  
John was standing in front of the window again, looking out, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. He was quiet.

He shouldn't be up, and definitely shouldn't be walking with crutches with his shoulder, or knee, or ankle. Sherlock didn't care. He sat himself up in his bed, ignoring the pain of his bruised ribs, and he swung his legs off the bed. He reached for the crutches next to the bed and stood up. He stumbled towards John, slowly.  
When he was behind the shorter man, he softly leaned against him, unable to wrap him in his arms without falling over.  
"I am so sorry. I am sorry for what I did to you. I had no idea."  
Sherlock could feel John's breathing against him. They stood like that for minutes.  
"John? Can you forgive me?"  
Slowly he turned around, and Sherlock put his weight back on both legs, biting back a moan.  
"There is nothing to forgive." John said.  
"I drove you into suicide. I almost killed you."  
"You killed yourself to protect me."  
"You didn't know that at that time."  
"I did. I never believed you lied to me all that time we were together. I never believed a thing you said on that phone call."  
"The part where I said I was sorry I meant."  
"Can I hold you?"  
"Please."

~

"Who took out the ammo?"  
Sherlock finally dared to ask.  
They had stood in front of the window together for almost ten minutes. Sherlock's body had began to tremble, and John had manhandled him back to bed. He was sitting in his chair, their fingers entwined. John seemed to have expected that question.  
"I cried myself to sleep that night. And I didn't bother to get out the next morning. When I finally managed to face the world again that evening, I went into my livingroom and found a single note on my table.

'Be patient, Dr. Watson. All thing will come to an end, eventually.'

I thought it was a stupid thing to say. Be patient, wait till death come's for you, instead of finding death yourself? Two weeks later you were standing in front of me, and it became clear to me why he had done it."  
"I thought you didn't have contact in my absence."  
"We didn't."  
"He kept an eye on you, then."  
"Yes. When you were sleeping after your surgeries I thanked him for it."  
Sherlock smiled.  
"I told him to sod off just two days later."  
John laughed.  
"You did."

~

"Sherlock, wake up."  
"John!"  
"Ssssh. Your okay. It was just a bad dream."  
"You can't leave me, John."  
"I won't."

~

"The doctor was in this morning."  
Sherlock said with a grin on his face, sitting staight up in the bed.  
John smiled back, putting down the two cups of tea he had just brought in.  
"Well?"  
"I can go home with you this afternoon."  
"That's great!" John said.  
Sherlock smiled widely now, and John felt his heart stutter. Finally they could go home together. Before he even realised it, he was holding Sherlock in his arms, overwhelming him with kisses, which were eagerly returned.

~

"John?"  
"Yes?"  
"Can I have you in my life?"  
"Yes, you can, Sherlock."  
"Always?"  
"Always."


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hmmm... Like it when you get mouthy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind words, comments and kudos.   
> It was fun writing this piece and it was even more fun sharing it with you all!

"You can't draw me when you're so close."  
John's lips turned into a smile against Sherlock's skin, while climbing onto the bed to sit behind him. Sherlock was sitting with his back towards John, completely naked. The smaller man's hands tickled along Sherlock's shoulder blades and then stroked his biceps in a promise for something more, earning him a deep rumble from Sherlock's throat.  
"It's your own fault. If you weren't that fucking hot all the time, I would be able to control myself." John said.  
"You're the one who suggested that I got rid of the sheet." Sherlock replied teasingly.  
Sherlock leaned back against him, John's hands going towards his front now, fingers going towards his nipples. John saw goosebumps coming up at his touch and he bent his fingers a bit more, using his nails to scratch that pale skin.  
"True. Love looking at that arse of yours. And besides, are you in a hurry? If you don't want to sit model anymore you just have to say so..."  
John said. His fingers had found those nipples and he pinched them between his finger and thumb. Sherlock moaned.  
"O, fuck, John..."  
"Hmmm... Like it when you get mouthy."

It was at least the ninth time John had asked Sherlock to sit model so he could finish his drawing of the back piece. And it was at least the second time that John really did manage to get some pencil stripes on to the paper before he just couldn't help himself and touch the gorgeous man in front of him. That arse really was fucking distracting.  
He loved to draw, he really did, but he loved the sight and feeling of a squirming and begging and cursing detective underneath him even more.

It has been several months after the case of the missing models. After they found the body's of the four men burried in the abandoned neighbours' garden, Marc Jenkins was charged with the torture and murder of the four victims and the kidnapping, torture, and intended homicide of Sherlock. Sherlock had made a statement when he was well enough, and thank god he didn't want to observe and study the paintings the man had made of him or the other victims. From what Greg had told John about them, he really didn't want to see them.

  
Sherlock had recovered sooner than expected. (Of course he did. It was Sherlock after all.)  
John had been afraid that it would take everything he had to keep the detective at home and resting, but he soon discovered that Sherlock was eager to be cuddled and pampered, and when he recovered from most of his injuries, he had a very healthy sex drive. So after a few weeks of stuffing him with cookies, tea and take away, cuddling on the sofa and in bed, Sherlock held his promise and used those clever fingers and mouth for the best.

John's hands went further down and he began sucking the man's neck, dragging his tongue over that long pale piece of skin, biting him just above his shoulder. Getting Sherlock squirming and begging, just as he liked him.  
"Ow Jesus Christ, John... Please... more...Fucking hell..."  
Sherlock turned his head around, finding John's lips and gave him an open mouth kiss, moaning in his mouth, pushing his arse back against John's groin. Demanding as ever.  
Yes. That drawing could wait.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Death of the heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10662537) by [AvaJones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaJones/pseuds/AvaJones)




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